The Lost Door

by Marc Buhmann

  “Excuse me, but who was that man visiting my wife?”

  The nurse looked at him over the magazine. “Man? You’re wife hasn’t had any visitors.”

  “But… there was a man in her room. Surely you saw him.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but no one came by.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t miss him?”

  She gave him an annoyed look. “I’m sure,” she said, and went back to her magazine.

  Knowing it was pointless to argue he went back to Lilly’s room and sat down in the chair next to the bed. What a strange man, he thought, and obtuse. Who was he, and why was he visiting her?

  He gave Lilly a sideways glance, took her hand in his. “Lilly? Can you hear me sweetie?”

  Your wife told me.

  “Give me a squeeze if you can hear me.” Yet there was no movement, not even a twitch, no indication she had heard.

  She’s speaking right now.

  How could he possibly know that? The man was delusional, had to be. The nurse said no one was there, but she’d probably been too engrossed in her magazine. Yes… he certainly needed to make it clear to the hospital that their security was lax and unacceptable.

  I look forward to seeing you again.

  We’ll see about that, DeMarcus. The next time we meet you better be more forthcoming.

  * * *

  Willem and Elliott walked through their neighbor’s field. It had been a dry season, so the normally tall stalks of corn where truncated and gold instead of their usual green. They were careful not to break any for fear of the wrath of Mr. Feltcher, an ill-tempered man who was always cussing and complaining about the difficulty of farming.

  The brothers were headed to the old willow tree. It was a sanctuary of sorts; a place they liked to pretend was a secret hideout. It was a ways off from Willow Creek Bridge—along the edge of the creek itself—and offered good shade and good fishing. It wasn’t hard to find, yet they never saw any other kids there so claimed it as their own.

  Mrs. Shelby had come through and their mother had started working at Manny’s the previous week. Sam had been invited over to his friend’s house for the day, so on her way into town she had dropped him off. It was odd not having her home, but both boys understood why it had happened.

  Willem looked for the umpteenth time at the flask Elliott carried. “Can I see it again?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Elliott said and handed it over.

  In the last month their mother had started to clear out their fathers things, storing some of it, tossing the rest. The things she decided to get rid of they sifted through, looking for anything that caught their attention. The flask had probably been a sore reminder of the decay that had been her marriage. Willem didn’t understand why Elliott wanted to hold onto something like this.

  One side was an etching: Amor Meus. “What’s it mean?” He looked up at Elliott.

  “Beats me.”

  He shook it but whatever liquid it once contained no longer existed, either drunk by his father or poured out by his mother. “Why do you want to keep it?” Willem held it out to Elliott who took it back.

  “It was dad’s.” He said it as if that made perfect sense, an obvious answer.

  “I know, but why?”

  “Because it was dad’s,” Elliott repeated, slower this time. “I can’t really explain it any more than that.” He must have had a confused look on his face because Elliott sighed. “This is something that was his. He touched it, he drank from it. Keeping it, I don’t know, makes me feel closer to him.”

  The words made sense, but Willem had no such emotional connection to an object once possessed by his father. In fact, the idea of an emotional connection through a physical one was foreign to him. He had fond memories of his father, memories from before, but the pain the man had caused him over the last several years trumped those.

  Time for a change in conversation.

  “You know how mom always said it was better to tell the truth?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Remember the night Mrs. Shelby was over?”

  Elliott stopped and turned. At first Willem thought his brother was mad, but the softness of his face was understanding. “It’s okay to be worried, Willem. I am, mom is, and I’m sure Sam is too. The best thing we can do is help her around the house, okay? She’s got her hands full.”

  “But she lied.”

  “She didn’t lie, Willem. She was protecting you. She’s protecting all of us.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  His brother chose his words carefully. “What she told you was a lie, yes, but the reason is because she doesn’t want you worrying about her. She’s dealing with grownup stuff is all. Does that make sense?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Don’t worry about it, okay? Mom’s got it under control.”

  Elliott put a reassuring hand on Willem’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. They continued their walk in silence, the sun beating down warming their skin. Cicada buzzed in the field, the stalk leaves rustling.

  “Do you think we’ll ever see dad again?” asked Willem.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “Dead or ran away, not sure which.”

  Willem had wanted to run away but never had worked up the courage. Where would he go? How would he survive? His father disappearing had alleviated that desire.

  “Why would he do that?” Willem wondered aloud.

  “Sometimes people just decide it’s best, either for them or for their loved ones.”

  “Who do you think he did it for? Him or us?”

  Elliott didn’t respond. Willem was afraid his brother wouldn’t answer the question, but it was important to him. His brother finally said, “I like to believe he did it for us. What do you think?”

  Up until this point he’d figured his father had died. He didn’t have an answer for his brother, not one he was satisfied with. He told Elliott as much.

  “When you decide let me know,” Elliott finished.

  They walked in silence a good ten minutes before seeing Willow Creek Bridge where someone was at its edge. A few minutes more and Willem recognized him—William—a boy in his class. Because their names were so similar their classmates often called them brothers. It annoyed Willem, but there wasn’t much he could do. Once something like that started it was almost impossible to stop. The two boys shared only one common interest and that was comic books, but Willem preferred DC while William liked Atlas Comics. They’d gotten into heated debates about it in the past. He didn’t want to pass him because he knew it would most certainly lead to another heated debate, one he preferred not to have today.

  “You know, we don’t have to go to the hideout today. We can wait,” Willem said as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Wait? Why? We’re almost there.”

  “I know, it’s just… William.”

  “Since when did you start using your own name like that?”

  “Will-ee-um!” he enunciated.

  “Oh! Will-ee-um. Got it. Who’s that?”

  “Kid on the bridge.”

  “You afraid of him?”

  “Not afraid, I just don’t like him.”

  “Why?”

  After Willem explained, Elliott said without hesitation, “Well that’s silly.”

  “It bothers me.”

  “That they call you brothers or the comic thing?”

  “Both.”

  “Is he a bad person or something?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then come on.”

  A few minutes later they were at the bridge. William was leaning against the side, fishing poll in hand, watching his bobber bounce along the surface of the flowing water. He glanced over. “Hey, Willem.”

  “Hi.” He looked sheepishly at his brother who nudged him with his elbow. “What are you doing?”

  He re
alized how stupid the question was the moment it escaped his lips. If William thought so he didn’t say.

  “Fishing. Haven’t caught anything yet.”

  “Do you ever?” he asked with mild contempt. Elliott nudged him again, this time hard. Willem glared.

  “What do you pull out of here?” Elliott asked politely.

  “Crappie mostly. Sometimes perch.”

  “Willem here pulled out a bass once.” Willem looked at his brother who smiled at him. “Didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Once last year,” he begrudgingly added.

  “Really?” William seemed genuinely impressed. “Never caught a bass here. How big?”

  “Fourteen incher.”

  “Cool! Hey… you check out this month’s Uncanny Tales?”

  Here we go, thought Willem.

  William had a strange liking for the weird and often picked up comics that focused on horror like Uncanny Tales, Journey into Mystery, and Strange Tales. Willem preferred the rival publisher who put out the likes of Superman and Batman.

  Willem said, “You know I don’t read those.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “Well, no.”

  “You really should. You might like them.”

  “I don’t like horror just like you don’t like superheroes.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like them. Scary is more interesting to me. I like the stuff that gets my blood pumping. Superheroes just don’t make me feel anything.”

  Willem said unmaliciously, “You’re weird.” William just laughed.

  “I know. I find the unknown creepy and wonderful. It’s more real to me than a man who can fly.”

  “Why’s that?”

  William shrugged. “Just is. The idea of Caroline’s Cottage, while unlikely, makes more sense.”

  “Ca—Caroline’s Cottage?” He tripped over the word.

  William looked over with mild shock. “You’ve never heard of it?”

  The way he was being looked at made him feel like he’d grown a third eye.

  “No. What is it?”

  “I heard some older boys talking about it at school.” William glanced to Elliott and said, “Have you heard of it?”

  “Just stories,” Elliott responded.

  Curiosity was getting the better of Willem. “What is it?” he asked again.

  “Well, the story goes that there once was a couple who had a farm house—not sure why they call it a cottage when it’s a farm house. Had a well and everything. Anyway, one night the husband went off and disappeared. For three weeks they looked for him until they found his body in the woods. He was naked and gutted.” He emphasized this last part by speaking slowly and succinctly. “The lady—Caroline was her name if you hadn’t already figured that out—was devastated by what happened to her husband and locked herself in her house. Over time she convinced herself that the body that had been found wasn’t her husband, and that he would return one day. She never left, never even came outside, just sat by the window… watching.

  “I guess a local woman’s group brought her food and stuff so that she wouldn’t starve. Well, one day one of those ladies came to visit Caroline only to find her and the house gone.”

  “Gone? Like burned down?”

  “No. Gone. As in not a trace of it anywhere.”

  “But how is that even possible?”

  “Beats me, but it gets weirder. They say that if you walk in the woods at night you might stumble upon the house, a single candle burning in the window next to Caroline, who still waits for her husband to return. It is always moving, never appearing in the same place twice, and if you try to approach, it moves away.”

  “Come on,” Willem said credulously. “A house that moves?”

  “That’s what they say—that if you approach it it always stays out of reach.”

  Willem turned to Elliott. “That can’t be true,” he said with a hint of nervousness. “Can it?”

  “That’s pretty much how I heard the story, though I have heard that on rare occasions the house doesn’t move. Sometimes a person can approach, but if they do—and if they enter the house—they are never seen again.”

  Willem and William were staring at him, awe on their faces. “Seriously?” said William. “Cool!” A big smile came to his lips and he looked at Willem. “That would be so neat to see!”

  Willem shook off the story. “Hold on. How is any of that even possible? A ghost house?”

  “Why not?” William said. “Ghosts exist. It’s been proven.”

  “No way would I go near a place like that.”

  “I think it would be exciting to see. Exciting and scary. When I’m older I’m going to go look for it.”

  “Let me know how that goes.” Willem looked at Elliott and asked, “Ready?”

  “If you are.”

  “Good luck with the fishing.”

  “Thanks!” Then: “You know… I think I’m going to try and catch a bass today, only mine will be fifteen inches.”

  “If you do, keep it. I want to see.”

  Willem and Elliott crossed the bridge then descended the embankment, following a small worn dirt path down to the creek edge. William asked, “Where you going?”

  Willem looked up. “Just along the creek.”

  “To where?”

  Willem pointed in the direction they were headed. “That way. See you at school.”

  He hated to admit that that stupid story made him nervous. When they were out of earshot of William, Willem asked, “Do you believe it?”

  “Caroline’s Cottage? No. It’s just a ghost story. It’s not real, just told to scare kids. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Willem, not believing it. Already his mind was swirling with images of his father stumbling through the woods after his accident, getting lost, and coming across the farm house. Had he followed it looking for help? Maybe he was one of the few that actually managed to get to the house and enter it. That would explain why his body had never been found. He was now a guest of Caroline, never to be seen again.

  Before long they were at the willow tree. Elliott led the way, spreading the hanging stalks and entering. They went from sun to shade, the temperature dropping noticeably.

  The willow tree sang to them, its tiny leaves rustling in the breeze. It was relaxing, hypnotic, comforting. “What did you want to show me?” Willem asked.

  Elliott looked at him and smiled. “This,” he said. He crouched and moved rocks out of the way. “I found this a couple years ago and thought it would make a swell hiding place, but at the time I had nothing to hide. Now…” He held up the flask. “Mom doesn’t want this stuff in the house—can’t say I blame her—but some of it I wanted to keep, and then I remembered this place.”

  He moved a final rock revealing a hole at its base. Elliott reached in and pulled out a tin box with a keyhole. It had an intricate design on it, a pattern that resembled vine leaves that wove in circles.

  “Here,” Elliott said and passed it to Willem, dug into his pocket, handed him a small ornate key.

  (The key! a distant voice cried.)

  “Open it.”

  Willem did as asked, the key turning smoothly. The lid opened to reveal their father’s worn pocket watch.

  “What is this?”

  “Our buried treasure,” Elliott replied. “This is our secret stash. Anything you want to keep hidden put in here. It’s better to keep this stuff than to toss it and regret it later.” Elliott handed Willem the flask. “Go on.”

  He set the box down onto the mossy ground and took the flask. He fought the urge to throw it into the creek as hard as he could.

  He ran his thumb over Amor Meus. One day he’d have to find out what it meant.

  Willem placed the flask in the box, closed it, the clasp latched too loudly to his ear, echoing. He locked it and returned the key to Elliott then handed him the box.

  Elliott took it and placed it back in the hole. Willem guessed that if they didn’t have a body to bury then bur
ying some of their fathers stuff was the next best thing. He watched as his older brother replaced the rocks and sticks.

  “How do you know this stuff will stay safe here, that someone won’t find it?”

  He stopped a moment and looked up at the tree. “Can’t you feel it?”

  Willem looked around trying to grasp what his brother was talking about. Elliott looked over his shoulder and must have seen Willem’s confusion.

  “There’s something special about this place,” he continued, patting the trunk of the tree. “She doesn’t give up her secrets, and this box… it is a secret, Willem.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so,” Elliott said. “A very special one.”

  * * *

  An upbeat instrumental rendition of Deck the Halls played on the portable radio David had set up on the nightstand next to Lilly. Through its tinny speaker the trumpets blared accompanied by a piano, trombone, and percussion. David stroked Lilly’s arm knowing this was her favorite Christmas song, singing alone to his unconscious wife.

  It was Christmas Eve and snow was falling in River Bend. Out the window flakes drifted lazily into oblivion. David was chilled just looking at it. The last few days hadn’t gotten above twenty-degrees, and he wasn’t looking forward to going back outside when visiting hours were over, even less enthused about going home to his cold bed alone. He missed Lilly, and he wanted her back. Her smile, her laugh, her warmth. Was that too much to ask?

  In celebration of the holiday he’d brought in a small artificial Christmas tree to decorate the room in some holiday spirit. He’d put her favorite ornament on top of the tree, dressed it in colorful lights, and positioned it on the nightstand the radio played from. It was the best he could do short of bringing her home. Next year, he kept telling himself, they’d celebrate Christmas properly.

  David stood, leaned over and kissed his wife’s forehead. “Until tomorrow sweetie.” He caressed her cheek and, for a moment, thought the corner of her lip curled as if trying to smile. When it didn’t his heart sank.

  The hallway was desolate, most people having abandoned their loved ones for the evening. One lone nurse sat at her station reading a newspaper. “Got the short stick?” he asked trying to sound upbeat and pleasant. She looked up with a hint of annoyance.