The Other Side
No one really knows what happens behind closed doors. You can listen. You can walk up softly, bare feet, breath held, and put your ear close. But you can’t see.
No one really knows.
Alice paused in the hallway. The early morning sun shone warmly through the shutters over the solitary window, highlighting the flecks of dust that floated aimlessly through the air like little pilgrims with no planned destination and softening the severe expressions on the portraits hung along the wall. From where the girl stood, looking all the way down that long passage, she could see the end door. It was a humble kind of door, still and mysterious, its dark green paint peeling off and its brass knob dulled after years. Last night as she had passed it on her way to the bedroom it had been frighteningly dark; but this morning, although it had an air of mystery around it, it was almost inviting. She thought perhaps the owner of the house, old Madame Denholm, used it as a storage room - Alice herself was only the housekeeper’s niece come to stay the week, and the many passages and doors of the mansion both frightened and intrigued her. Walking slowly down the hallway, hearing her feet pad softly on the floor, she stretched out her fingers and let them rest on the smooth doorknob. It was cold to the touch.
“Alice. Alice. Open the door. Please, Alice.”
There it was; the gentle, whispering voice of a child. There was someone on the other side. She had thought she heard it call pleadingly to her when she hurried past the night before, and again in her dreams, but when she woke she had dismissed it as mere imagination. Now she stepped back, hesitating. How did it know her name?
“Alice, open the door. I want to come out. Please,” it sobbed.
Alice tried to ask why it was behind the door in the first place, but the words became stuck in her throat. She could run down and find someone to help - her aunt, or another of the servants, or even Madame Denholm herself - but somehow she remained where she was, feet frozen to the floor. No, Alice, no, she told herself weakly as she twisted the knob and unconsciously prepared to step back. Oh, she didn’t want to do it, but still, she had to, she couldn’t leave the child there alone, it would be frightened ... she pushed against the door, heart thumping as it reluctantly gave way.
She was first aware of a single candle standing amidst the darkness; secondly, of the mustiness that made her think of old, hidden secrets covered by dust or concealed within the pages of forgotten books. She shuffled forward slightly. How quiet it was! Her hand was slipping from the doorknob as she stepped farther inside, her entire body was stiff with fear, she was choking on a scream that began in her chest and slowly worked its way to her throat, refusing to come out; but she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Why was it so horribly dark?
“Oh, Alice - you’ve come at last,” she heard it whisper.
The door clicked shut and the flame went out.
No one really knows what happens behind closed doors. You can listen. You can walk up softly, bare feet, breath held, and put your ear close. But you can’t see.
No one really knows.
