HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS

by Jamie Eubanks

  Finally, after inspecting practically every inch within her reach, she turned to John. Her head tipped to one side. "You’re not trying to trick me, are you? Are you sure there's a door in here?"

  The cynical way in which she pursed her lips while crossing her arms made him want to laugh. She believed in monsters, despite having never seen one. And yet that same brand of logic ruling her brain protested the possibility of hidden doors. John went to the far end of the pantry, leaning a hand against the wall. "Are you sure you want to give up so easily?"

  She nodded, as if eager to find the door. Or perhaps, as her expression suggested, she was just eager to learn whether there actually was a door.

  "Watch what I'm doing." He reached beneath the second shelf from the bottom and pushed aside a six high stack of canned tuna to leave room for his hand. To make sure she saw what he aimed for, he hunkered down, favoring his right leg. He pointed to the button. "You can't see it; you'll have to feel for it."

  She crept closer and nodded. With the press of the finger, the end wall slid soundlessly away, revealing a triangular shaped room, roughly the size of a pool table cut diagonally in half. Inside, there were no windows, no other door. Nothing but bare stone walls, a low ceiling, and brown carpet covering the floor.

  "If the bad people come back," John said, "you'll have a good place to hide. There's a little button on the wall, just inside the door. Push it, and the door closes behind you. Push it again, and it retracts into the wall."

  "What's it for?"

  "The secret room?"

  "Yeah. What's it for?"

  "It was designed to hold a water heater, but I went with a crude method of solar heating, instead, which means when it's overcast and cold, bath water is warmed on the stove like we've been doing the past few days."

  "Wow," she said, venturing into the triangular room. "If any kids come over, we could play hide‑and‑seek and they'd never find me." She turned a slow circle, gazing around with wide‑eyed wonder. "I wish I could live here forever and ever."

  Since stepping into the pantry, he hadn't thought about the woman once. He was, however, thinking about her now. He’d brought her soup and crackers about half an hour ago and hadn't returned to collect the tray. Neither did he want to collect the tray. Because whenever he found himself in the guest room, all logic seemed to be left behind the threshold. He wanted to expose her as a fraud, while dreading that she might perform another "miracle" which would once again mess up his equilibrium. So, aside from warning her that the tomato soup was hot, John had entered and exited her room without saying anything.

  "...cane for?"

  "Sorry. What did you say?" John asked.

  "Why do you use a cane for?" Valerie repeated.

  "My leg was crushed in an accident."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Once I fell down and hurt my knee real bad," she said, bringing her left knee up as if the wound of long ago could be seen through her jeans. "Mommy kissed it and made it all better. Then she told me not to run down the stairs no more."

  She hopped on one foot for a moment, nearly losing her balance before setting the other foot down. "John...?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "It's okay if you don't believe in monsters. Once, I didn't believe in God. I thought if there really is a God, how come He don't make the bad people go away forever. That's when Mommy told me about the sheets and coats."

  "Sheep and goats."

  "Yeah," Valerie agreed. "Sheets and coats. But I believe in God now. You wanna know why?"

  "Why?"

  "When the monster came the last time, I prayed. I asked God to help me find somebody." She gazed upward, first at the ceiling as if to acknowledge God was somewhere up above, then at John's face. "I think God heard me. That's how come I found you."

  "I'm going to leave the door open in here. If the bad people come, just run inside and push the button." John turned and went into the kitchen. He thought about the last time he had earnestly prayed. And yes, help had arrived...after Vickie and Ryan were both dead.

  Since Valerie would be staying in his home for at least a week or two, John decided it was best to invent some house rules. First, he took her across the house to the laundry room. He helped her climb up on the washing machine, so she'd have a better view.

  "This," he said while pointing to the gauge upon the wall, "tells us how much power we have to run the house. You read it like a thermometer. If the green dot is lit up at the top where it says ‘float,’ we have full power. That means all the batteries behind that door over there are fully charged. The closer it gets to the red area at the bottom, the less electricity we have. And when it's in the red, we have to be careful about leaving lights on and we can't use the washing machine, toaster, or anything else that requires a lot of power unless I turn on the generator. I might ask you from time to time to come in here and check the battery meter. And it's very important you know how to read it. Do you know your colors?"

  Valerie nodded.

  "Do you know your numbers?"

  Another nod.

  "All right," he said, pointing to the fifty, "what number is this?"

  "Five, zero."

  "Very good. Now hop down from there and we'll go into the kitchen. I want you to know which appliances you should never touch."

  After going over the house rules, John went into the living room to feed the fireplace. It was getting late. The child should have already been in bed. "Time to wash your face, and brush your teeth."

  Valerie pointed towards the Steinway. "Before I hafta go to bed, will you play a song on that piano over there?"

  Even as he tried to think his way out of it, he decided which music he would play. It was one he'd written some eight or nine years ago, when Ryan was only two.

  He took a seat at the Steinway, handing Valerie his cane. Soon, music drifted throughout the house, bringing Bear into the room. It was a quieting, peaceful sound that complemented the night. A child's lullaby of the haunting variety, composed for one Ryan Peter Mills, who used to run about in a pair of terrycloth training pants. Ryan Peter Mills, who loved Rock 'n' Roll, and by the age of four, could sing every song on every album his father had recorded.

  John stopped playing in the middle of the lullaby and looked up from the keys, startled by the woman who approached him.

  Stopping at a distance of perhaps ten feet away, she tightened the sash on the robe, smiling. "That was beautiful. Please...continue."

  John retrieved his cane and stood up. "You shouldn't be out of bed," he said, surprised by the concern in his own voice, for it bordered on anger.

  Keeping her distance, Jillian pulled up her left sleeve, showing an arm that bore no gauze, no cuts, none of the stitches he'd sewn himself, not even a scar. "I'm feeling much better. Please, sit down. That was a beautiful song you were playing. What's it called?"

  "It doesn't have a name," he replied, feeling as if he needed to shake his head to clear his mind. The woman had done it again, thrown off his equilibrium. He was lost somewhere between fear and relief. He felt his stomach tighten. His shoulders went rigid. His neck muscles stood out, well defined. He tried to swallow, but found his mouth had gone dry.

  "You wrote it?"

  He nodded, for the words were stuck in his throat.

  "Have you written any others? Something you could sing?"

  Another nod. "Y‑yes. A few." It didn't feel as if they were holding a real conversation, but as if they were exchanging dialogue for a vaudeville act; soon, the punch line would be delivered and they would break out in song and dance before an applauding audience.

  "Would you do one? I'd love to hear it."

  She had to be playing head games again, using the poor lighting and distance to her advantage. No other explanation came to mind. No matter how ridiculous her ploy, no matter how unfounded her claims, she simply wasn't going to let it rest. She was as brazen as she was inventive. He had no clue as to how she'd managed to cover the
stitches and wounds this time, but the woman had found a way. At first, he couldn't make up his mind as to which boggled him most: her strange and needless insistence that her fabrication was real, or the nature of the fabrication, itself.

  For perhaps the first time in his life, John couldn't think of a single song he'd written. Worse: he couldn't think of a single song, period. She'd turned his mind into a vacuum and he couldn't understand how she could be so casual about it.

  John reseated himself at the piano, passing Valerie his cane. As his fingers touched down on the keys, the music came. His mouth was still dry, his mind still dazed, yet the lyrics followed:

  "Murky waters.

  Envenom the shores.

  For a thousand tomorrows

  Of yesterday's dreaming of you.

  Carving your name in a tree.

  Wondering where you may be.

  What solace I find,

  Is a ruse of the mind,

  When I dream of you.

  "Midnight finds me

  Out for a walk.

  Alone with my memory

  Of yesterday's dreaming of you.

  Counting the stars in the sky.

  Watching as life passes by.

  The haven I find,

  Is deception of mind,

  When I dream of you.

  "Vast is the void.

  Wicked, the curse.

  Eternity's haunting

  Of yesterday's dreaming of you.

  In darkness the future was cast.

  Blinded, I turn to the past.

  Where illusions I find

  Sweetly torture the mind,

  When I dream of you.”

  The last note faded like a drawn out sigh. Silence settled over the room. For a moment, no one spoke. Valerie stood at her mother's side, holding the woman’s hand against her cheek, the baggy T-shirt falling below the knees of her jeans. Her eyelids were heavy. Her body still swayed to the soothing music that was no longer there.

  "You have a lot of talent," Jill said. "I've heard it before, but never quite like that. I don't remember the name of the group who did that song. They were popular fifteen or so years ago. But your voice...It's so much like his, the singer for that band."

  "They called themselves Stretto. The piece I just played was a cut from the album, Hidden Doors, Secret Rooms."

  Valerie tugged lightly on the sleeve of her mother's robe. "John has a secret room. He says if the bad people come back I can hide in it."

  Jillian placed a kiss on her daughter's forehead then gave the little girl a hug. "It's getting late, honey. You should be in bed."

  "Are you really feeling better?" Valerie asked.

  "Much. By tomorrow evening, I'll be as good as new. Hurry up and get ready for bed."

  She watched the child trotting off towards the hallway then Jillian took a few steps until she stood next to John, who now looked down over the keys of the Steinway.

  "I don't appreciate the game you're playing," he said, soundlessly tracing a finger across the keys of the piano.

  "Game?" she questioned.

  John shook his head, lips pressed firmly together. He had had enough of this woman's stories and was about to tell her as much, when he looked over at her and found himself once again speechless.

  The woman no longer remained in the shadows a few yards away. She stood here, right beside him. John found himself lifting the sleeve of the robe she wore, exposing her left arm. Stitches he'd sewn himself were gone. The wounds there had completely healed. Her flesh appeared smooth and touchable. Unmarred. It was true. But it could not be true.

  "Has Valerie been much trouble?" she asked.

  "No," he said. He believed her now. What choice did he have? "None at all."

  "She seems to have taken quite a shine to you."

  "Your arm," he said, raising his gaze to meet hers. His mind kept rejecting what his eyes insisted to be true. "Are you sure you should be on your feet?"

  "No. I shouldn't be. The music brought me out here. That, and I wanted to talk to you."

  John walked her over to the couch. She took a seat, settling gingerly, then repositioning slowly until she could relax. John remained on his feet. From his vantage point, he could now see that all was not well with Jillian Braedon. True, she had erased the worst part of the wound that had started below the curve of her jaw and angled downward. But, she leaned forward now. The silk pajama top hung loosely, exposing more than she realized. The stitches he'd sewn and the scabs that had saddled around them, were all that held the skin together at the jagged seam slashing through her breast. He understood. As she'd said yesterday, healing doesn't come out of thin air. Sleep was perhaps even more important to her now. The woman could only do a little at a time, resting frequently to build up her strength.

  Jill spoke up. "I can understand why you've been avoiding me. I put you in a position of either questioning my sanity, or questioning your own. I wouldn't have believed me either if I were you."

  "I‑I...It seems as though I owe you an apology."

  "No you don’t. I owe you my life. Valerie's life, too. And that supersedes anything else. You have every right to doubt me. Sometimes, I doubt it, myself. I keep thinking I'll wake up one morning and discover it's all been a terrible nightmare. Immortality is supposed to be beyond the scope of the imagination. But I'm living it. The possibility of never being able to die scares the hell out of me. Granted, the average man may wish to live forever. But as the saying goes: Be careful of what you wish; it might come true."

  John experienced a strange desire to reach out and touch her, just to make sure she was real. Only with great effort was he able to refrain, posing a question, instead. "Had you been left in the snow, would you not have died out there?"

  "I honestly don't know. Even when a person is asleep, or in a coma, for that matter, the brain continues to function. It keeps the heart beating. The lungs breathing. In other words, the body fights to stay alive, until there's no life left – all autonomically.

  "John, have you ever screamed during a nightmare, waking yourself up?"

  He thought about the weeks and months after the helicopter accident. "More than once."

  "What do you think would happen if, instead of lying in bed, you physically acted out those nightmares?" She lowered her gaze, studying her fidgeting hands in great detail. When he failed to respond, she inhaled deeply. "John," she said, searching his face with a pair of desperate eyes. "I‑I don't know how to say this, except to come right out with it. Bad things keep happening to me. And as long as I stay here...you're in danger, too."

  "I'm not worried about Brewster," John replied. "He's not going to harm me. And I won't let him harm you or Valerie."

  "That’s not what I mean," Jillian said. She flexed her hands with anxiety. "It's more than Brewster. Worse than Brewster. So much worse..." Jillian glanced up then turned away, briefly closing her eyes to stave off the tears. "I wanted to tell you this before, but I‑I couldn't. You...you weren't ready. I wasn't ready. Maybe you're still not ready, but you have to know...I mean...I‑I just..." Jillian winced, bringing a trembling hand to her mouth.

  A moment of silence passed between them. John took a seat at her side, deeply concerned. Some women cry without shedding tears. Jillian did so now. He took her hand, felt it tremble against his own. Her lips parted as if she meant to finish her sentence. But all she managed to do was gaze at him with misty blue eyes.

  "Don't be afraid to talk to me, Jillian."

  "I was attacked by something. Something... something horrible."

  He gently squeezed her hand. "I understand..."

  "No," she said firmly. "The thing that attacked me...It's going to come back, John. It always comes back. And every night, every time I close my eyes, it's that much closer. There's nothing you can do to stop it. If you get in its way, it'll kill you. Just like it killed the others. And..."

  Again, Jillian brought a trembling hand to her lips, unable to continue.

  "W
hat is it?" he asked, still grasping her hand. "Jillian, what attacked you?"

  Her only response was a shake of the head.

  "Jillian?"

  "Mommy?

  Jillian drew back her hand, clenched her jaw, and put on the best imitation of a smile he'd ever seen. Both brows raised simultaneously in an expression of maternal delight as Valerie approached. And although the woman didn't speak, the false message she relayed to the child was perfectly clear: I'm fine; everybody's fine; what is it that you want on this fine evening, honey?

  "I'm all ready to be tucked in."

  "Where is she sleeping?" Jillian asked, finally regaining her voice.

  "My room. I'll sleep out here. It's easier to tend the fireplace that way."

  Jill tucked a lock of hair behind her daughter's ear. "Go get into bed, honey. I'll be there in a few minutes to say goodnight."

  "But I want to sleep with you!" Valerie said.

  "No."

  "But what if the monster comes?"

  "You worry too much."

  "Bu..."

  "No buts."

  Valerie went over to the piano, turned around briefly to throw a sullen pout in her mother’s direction, and left the room. Bear, who had been curled up on the floor before the fireplace, trotted off after the girl, tail wagging.

  John broke the silence. "Instead of telling her she worries too much, why not tell her that monsters don't exist?"

  "My husband believed in honesty," Jillian began. "He said the problem with most children is that they have no trust in their parents. Valerie wasn't raised believing in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny. At first, I thought it was unfair. I wanted to give my child all the magic I had when I was little. But Jim was adamant about it. He said if you start lying to a child, you'll eventually kill the trust. Once they get old enough to question whether or not there really is a Santa Claus, they'll start questioning other things they've been told. They'll begin to doubt there’s a God, or if He too, was just a convenient lie. They'll question the values they've been taught. I don't want that for my daughter. So, I try to be up‑front with her about everything."