70
I climb down the rickety stairs to the basement. Books are strewn about the room again, old boxes lie all over the floor. Again? And I see an old door in the basement that I had never seen before. A door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before. Odd. Twenty years and it has never once registered with me. Perhaps it wasn’t there until today, but that couldn’t be possible. This wouldn’t be the first time something odd has happened here. I am cleaning the basement constantly. I tell myself I’m not losing my mind, that these things do happen. Everybody knows the feeling of tidying up a room so that it is neat and orderly, only to come to the sudden realization a week later that it has gotten completely filthy again. There is nothing special about that. And yet I feel positive that the door has never been there before. I am not apprehensive about opening it, I truly am not. I swear. But I get a strange feeling when I look at the door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen before… like deja vu. A memory seems to be trying to claw its way to the surface of my mind. A terrible, dark, twisted memory. I dismiss it with a shudder. From up above, I hear the sound of thunder. I’m reshelving an anthology of Edgar Allen Poe when I hear the creak. It’s an old house, it cannot be blamed for creaking occasionally… I whirl my head around, my heart suddenly jackhammering against my ribcage. The creak was not coming from the old house. It was coming from behind the door. The door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before, now I am sure of it. What could be behind that door? The boiler perhaps! And nothing more. Maybe it holds an old fuse box. Who knows? Who really cares? Who wants to know what is behind the door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before? A couple quick striding steps and it crashes open with a bang. I stand in the phantom doorway, the doorway that is but never was. The dim flickering of the overhead light in the basement casts my shadow onto the cold stone floor of that room that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before. A cold sinister voice floats over the damp air. “Must you keep disturbing my slumber? Must you keep disturbing my peace? Must you be made to forget time and time again about the fact that there is a small door that must have always been there, and yet you have never seen it before? Begone. You have forgotten before, and you will forget again.” The hairs stand up on the back of my neck; I want to run but my feet remain firmly rooted to the place. The voice begins to chant in a language I have never heard before. An old, rasping tongue from eons ago, one forgotten long ago by men. It is a cruel oppressive speech, like old hinges scraping against a door. A door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before. A swirling wind picks up from deep in the shadows of the room. I am blown backwards, into my basement, into my bookshelf. Books fly from the walls and boxes fly through the room. A pinprick of light appears in the center of my vision, slowly expanding until I am blinded and then everything goes dark. When I wake up I get up off the floor and sigh. I must have dozed off again. It happens so often in the basement, perhaps there’s something about the air. I resume cleaning the old books that have been knocked from their shelves when I see a door. A door that must have always been there, and yet I have never seen it before. No matter. Though perhaps I should check, just check… and yet some distant memory compels me, and I know I should not go. I climb up the rickety stairs away from the door that must have always been there, and yet I had never seen it before.
David Gitelman
