The DoorA Story by Chadvonswan Knock Knock... Sal Green was planning on dying soon. With each flick of the wrist he came closer to death. Each tick of the watch on his wrist brought him closer to his expected demise. Sitting on the cliff side wooden bench facing the Pacific, Sal thought about the simple concept of dying. All of the people here on this Earth would soon be gone. Every electrical conscious, all of these tourists and the families of four would disappear as the heart of time beat on. He knew eventually it was going to happen soon. The more he thought about it, the more he could feel the cold conclusion creep itself closer to him. He felt it in the wind of the sea; tasted it in the air he breathed. Death. It was an odd thought, an odd thing to expect. Yes, Sal was getting old, but he was still in good health. Though his thoughts were no longer about his dead wife, they were always about death in general. Ever since his wife had glanced into Deaths grim face, he felt the cold stare around him always, waiting for Sal to make a final accident and die. He knew it was going to happen, and Sal avoided putting himself in any situation that had a potential to conclude his life in a violent manner. Sal wasn't a fan of blood and guts, he winced at the sight of a paper cut. He even tried to delay his inevitable doom by avoiding driving. He expected somebody to croak behind the wheel going seventy five on the freeway and sideswipe him off of the road. Sal was constantly thinking about the doors. Paranoid about which door would open for him and lead him away from this life. If it was the door with blood flowing under the cracks and intestines tangled around the lock, he tried to stray far from ever turning that knob. The door Sal wanted was not painted red with elaborate surmise. The door he wanted was a plain door with a plain knob and a plain key. He hoped that at the end of his life the plain door would find him and he would pleasantly walk through it and shut it behind him without a hint of a creak. Sal hoped he would find that door in the bed of his sleep and he would open that door without even realizing what was happening. A quiet, happy death was all he wanted. To slip from one dream to the next. But Sal really had no say in which door he happened to knock on. Standing up from the bench and buckling his belt, Sal trailed the narrow dirt path along the cliff back to his beach house, appreciating the breath of the sea. He smiled in serene melancholy at the faces of youth, the faces of the future that would all be expired before they could say I Love Life. Running a hand through his graying hair, he checked his watch and looked over his shoulder at the same time, expecting someone to come push his frail body out of the way. He noticed the oncoming traffic and his pace quickened as he darted off of the dirt path to allow the bicyclists to pass him. Avoid everything that is fast and everything that is operated by the Naïve Youth, a rule he lived by. The sun was setting, its rays blinking on the horizon, and Sal pondered about what occurs after your eyes shut. Once the tick of the heart stops, the tick of the clock continues without skipping a beat. Your soul would float up, up, up, into a large jar, or a large box, carefully packaged with bubble-wrap and all, and once everybody below on Earth was gone and wrapped and packaged, finally the box could be shipped off to its destination, all Earthly entities joined into one. But where or what was the destination? Sal's house was less than a mile away. His feet carried him past the ice plants abundant to the beaches and the sand all around him, past the people and the birds and the snails. The cliff side now receded into the sand, and the beach houses sat quiet, facing the ocean. He could even see the roof of his house, beached upon the warm sand, placed perfectly under the bulb of the universe to bask and cook until the universe was ready to eat, to consume Sal and his soul. He winced at the dying sun and recited this thought again. We're all meat, waiting to be consumed, he thought, to be swallowed by the universe. But where do we all end up? Sal peered at the waves and the happy lovers strolling along the path. Smiling at a young couple, he thought to himself, I will see you both very soon. I may not know you now, but we will all know each other when the time is right, once the timer goes off. But where do we all end up? The couple continued past Sal and stopped at a blue port-a-potty. Of course! Sal laughed at his morbid flow of thoughts, but he felt as if he was the one who was now creeping up on death. After the universe consumes our souls, swallowing us into the black hole of its stomach, we'll all be shat back out. Recycled back to where we all started. Sal laughed again at his macabre speculation, but was content with his conclusion. He felt he was peeking over the shoulder of God, trying to see what he was writing. God the novelist. Death the publisher. Approaching the walk of his house, Sal made a mental note to write down his ghastly cerebration, to scribble away his satirical interpretation on the process of death. Odd, satirical, whatever the hell. Sal felt a grin stretch his lips when he thought of the first sentence he would write: I am the one who has peeked over the shoulder of God. What a kick he will get out of it! Sal abruptly paused his pace as he came upon the front door. His train of thought was derailed. Laying in broken glass at the doorstep and dressed in all black, a young hoodlum was bleeding out of a slit in his neck. His body was convulsing, shaking and stirring like a puppet. The French door was shattered. Glass was scattered all around the body, blood painted on the Welcome mat. Well welcome home, Sal. Sal knelt down next to the kid and recognized him immediately. He did gardening work for Sal a couple months ago. He was quite handy with the rake, but Sal had to fire him under suspicion of theft. The kid suddenly became aware of Sal. The dying black eyes glared into his own. The eyes were scared, but they were aware. Yes, they were staring into Sal's own blue eyes, but they were simultaneously staring into those of Death. Sal could feel the cold presence stir around him. All these thoughts of Death finally summoned him. A message perhaps? Sal then noticed the backpack laying next to the body. He saw the reflection of his porch light on the face of his own watch, which now lay cracked on the concrete. He reached over and picked up the watch and stuck it in his shirt pocket and grabbed the backpack. The zipper was open and he stared in at the contents of his own safe, which were now dropped carelessly into this kids bag. His fathers silver pocket watch, his wife's jewelry, cash and some old coins. Sighing, he set the bag down next to the body and looked at the kid. His body was slowly calming. Desperate hands were wrapped around the cut in his neck, blood seeping through the fingers. The kid clutched at his throat, fear emitting off of his body, and glared into Sal's eyes, and his black eyes said, You did this to me, this is all your fault. Sal broke the intense glare and stood up. He allowed the kid, the criminal, to die on his porch. His blood was already spilled on the Welcome mat. There was nothing he could do. Even if there was something I could do, he thought, something I could do to save him, I wouldn't. He wouldn't interrupt his process his dying, he wouldn't impede Death. This was his TIME, right now was when it was supposed to happen. God wrote it down, and Death just published it. The kid was now dead, Sal supposed. A mumble of gurgles issued out of the bloody slit, and his hands were no longer wrapped around his neck trying to contain his life from spilling out; rather they lay awkwardly limp and painted red at his sides. The puddle of blood was growing closer to Sal's shoes and he stepped away before contact was made. Sal then turned his attention to the shattered French door. The glass, the blood, the body, the bag. The equation was solved before him. The kid was aware of Sal's small wealth and had decided to come hit his house after being fired, out of pure revenge or just plain crime. Having worked for Sal, the kid was familiar with his schedule; that he left his house every day at five to go walk along the beach and the trails. So he came and broke into Sal's house, cracked open his safe, took all of his valuables and tripped coming back out and fell through the French door, shattering the glass and slitting his own throat. Oh, the universe can be funny sometimes, can it? Sal turned to the dead body and repeated his thought. “The universe can be funny sometimes, can it?” He giggled. “Well, you should know.” Sal tried the doorknob and it was unlocked and the door opened onto more glass. He turned back to the body and whispered, “Karma, young man. It's called karma.” He stepped over the broken glass and turned on the lights. He yawned and then laughed after remembering his curious thoughts of death from earlier and wrote them down first before calling the police. After a hot cup of coffee the next day, Sal left his house, stepping cautiously over the red stain on his porch. The Welcome mat was in the trash. He didn't like it that much anyway. Instead of trailing the dirt path that ran along the shore, Sal walked up the brick sidewalks of the streets and into the town. The sun was bright and high, there were no clouds out, the ocean was awake and the wind was alive. Sal felt alive himself. The incident that occurred last night was still fresh on his mind. The police had arrived in a reasonable amount of time and got rid of the body quick, flipping it over onto a gurney and zipping it up in a bag. Sal had watched this from inside his house, staring out the broken French door while the police officer was filling out his report. His internal thoughts, he recalled, were quite humorous. He remembered the officer asking him when he had arrived, and Sal was all the while thinking the irony of the whole situation. The kid found himself wrapped up in a bag after helping himself to my safe, and I found him dead, the bag next to him. Now he's the one zipped up. The detective who had arrived on scene with the police officers was named Hank Thompson. He had solved the crime scene so quick as if it was a game. Or a simple puzzle. He had almost concluded the affair as fast as Sal had. According to Thompson, the kid, whose name was Miguel Fernandez, had broke the glass next to the knob, unlocked the door, broke the safe (a cheap f*****g safe, as Thompson had so blatantly stated) stole the contents, something startled him and he scurried to the door, slipping on the broken glass on the floor and clashing into the French door, shattering the glass and piercing his own jugular. Seemed simple enough. Sal stopped in front of a smoke shop and wandered in, pausing briefly to glance at this generations method of smoking: glass bongs and glass pipes and tubes and plastics and what not. What ever happened to good-old reliable wooden pipes? A respectable briar wood was Sal's personal favorite utensil, and he had it pocketed in his jacket. Smiling at the clerk he pointed to a bag of Irish cream tobacco, paid and exited the shop, pausing again to pack his pipe and light it. He had to shield the weak match from the Pacific winds that blew up the streets. Puff, puff, puffing on his pipe the tobacco was ignited, finally his lungs were made acquainted with the familiar ghost of smoke. Up the street and rounding a corner, Sal paused in front of an antique store. He didn't fully understand why he stopped here, but that there was a vague reasoning behind it. Finishing his smoke and pocketing his pipe, he entered the dim shop, specks of dust floating where the light touched the air. Sal was greeted by a rather young woman, who appeared to have no business whatsoever attending an antique shop. Dressed in a bright yellow gown, her creamy hair bundled atop her head like a crown, she stuck out like a glowing trophy amongst all the monochrome items, mostly of wooden substance. “Hello, sir. How are you on this fine Thursday morning?” Sal had to look at the girl again, for the first time he saw her she appeared to be in her mid thirties, but now as he gazed at her with quiet fascination, she appeared to be not even twenty. “Hello, young lady. I am quite peachy, quite peachy indeed.” “Can I help you find anything?” Sal let the question float in the air between them as he turned and absorbed the room. He didn't know why he was here or what he was looking for. Just passing the time, he assumed. “Oh, no, thank you very much. I am just browsing. Passing the time.” The girl smiled and leaned back on the stool she was perched on. Her breasts stuck out like two hills, or rather two sand dunes on the beach, and Sal imagined himself laying in the warm sand and basking in the heat of the sun. The bulb of the universe. Tick tick. “Well if you need any help with anything, I'll be right here.” “Thank you very much.” Sal turned and crept among the heaps of random items, each piece completely unlike the previous. An old letter opener sat on top of a cracked radio from the forties. An acoustic guitar with a solid orange finish leaned against a cabinet stacked with leather bound books, their spines decaying with time. Tick tick. Sal looked down a row of shelves with miscellaneous merchandise, mostly war propaganda from the thirties. A lamp in the shape of a castle sat upon a rigid bureau with a broken chair beside it. Sal turned and regarded the young woman, who was now reading a book with an all red dust jacket. Her eyes flickered across the page as if she was watching a car speed by, and her fingers were tickling the page, teasing herself to read faster and faster, she flicked page and her eyes darted some more and those fingers were already caressing the next page, and before he knew it she turned the page again. Sal watched her with adoration, remembering his wife and how she was the same way with books, always eager to find out what happens next, desperately seeking conclusion. The girls eyes flickered so fast that Sal didn't even realize she was looking into his own. He felt a blush radiate under his wrinkled cheeks and he turned down an isle without looking. He was smiling to himself, watching his feet quietly pad the carpeted floor, not even browsing like he had said he was. The isle stopped before him and Sal let himself gaze upon the unhinged door leaning against the wall. The door was a rich mahogany, the panels seemed to glow with life. He leaned closer to the door and smelled the wood. A sweet scent of marveling life sailed through his nostrils and into his smoke tainted lungs and it was then that he decided to buy the door. What perfect timing, he thought, right when some little thief goes and destroys my door, God presents me with a new one. He reached and grabbed the knob. Its brass was cool against his palm and it felt heavy, it felt real, it felt alive. He tugged on the knob; it was not loose. It was really in there, as if it grew out of the door. Sal ran both hands up along the sides of the door. It looked to be about the same size as his French door. But this was no French door. This was no glass door. It was solid wood. Nobody was breaking through this. Not even an ax could bash this wood. Sal knocked on the door three times, with each knock a sensation of sweet security answered back. Sal approached the young lady, who had her nose so far in the book she could possibly smell the words and finish the chapter. He cleared his throat and she set the book down, tuning on her business face. “Did you need help with anything, sir?” “Yes, that door over there down that isle. I was wondering how much it is.” “Door?” “Yes, right over there.” He turned and pointed down the isle he had been in. “There is a beautiful mahogany door leaning against the wall and I think I would like to buy it.” “Hmm,” She stood up and walked around the counter, passing Sal and going to the isle. She turned and Sal followed her light steps. The girl was standing in front of the door with her arms crossed and shaking her head. “I don't know where this door came from. I've never seen it before.” She laughed and turned to face Sal. “But all the same, I guess it is for sale. I don't see a price tag on it but I could give it to you for fifty bucks.” She smiled at Sal, revealing small teeth that seemed to be all exactly the same size. “Does that sound fair?” “Of course it does, of course. But you see, my dear, I am a rather frail old man, I couldn't even begin to lift the thing, and I don't even have a car to pick it up in.” “Well I guess my Dad could deliver it to you.” She walked down the isle to the counter and sat back on the stool. “He makes deliveries most of the time to people like you.” Sal felt slightly offended. It had been a long time since anyone had hinted at his old age, and coming from a bright, beautiful young girl it seemed like a flick on the ear. “That would be most appreciated.” “Could you write down your address?” She revealed a paper and a pen. Sal wrote down the address and took out his wallet, handing her a fifty dollar bill. "Thank you, sir. It's kind of funny if you think about it. Trading this little piece of paper for such a big door. It almost seems absurd.” Sal laughed and thought he was laughing at something his wife had said a long time ago. “Yes, it does appear that way. I have never thought of it before.” The girl smiled again and her age seemed to fade with every gesture. “My dad should bring you the door later today.” “That's fine.” He turned towards the door and winked at the girl. “Have a nice day, sir.” “Goodbye, miss.” The door came five hours later. The girls father, a fat man dressed in all white pulled into the drive way of Sal's house in a pickup truck. The door was in the bed of the truck and he lifted it out as if it was a pillow. Sal had been in the front yard watering his garden when the truck pulled in. The fat man had set the door on the porch next to the shattered French door. The glass shards were disposed of but the blood stain had remained. The fat man, who introduced himself as Glen Cromwell, eyed the red stain after setting down the door. “What happened here?” “Oh, I had to do some exterminating.” Sal laughed. “Damn racoons.” “I hear ya, I have the same problem at my place.” Sal and Glen exchanged small talk. Glen was an overweight man. The constant pressure in his body forced his veins through the swamp of fat to the surface of his skin. Sweat stood in beads motionless on his skin, and Sal felt like drying the man off with a towel. Glen didn't seem to notice or care. Sal felt Glen was lingering around in hopes of obtaining a generous tip, continuing the conversation even though it had died off at several points. Sal broke the linger by pulling out his wallet and offering him a twenty, and soon after Glen got in his truck and drove off. The mahogany door was exactly the same size as the French door. Sal began unhinging the French door with a screwdriver and quickly had it off. The hinges on the new door were very old, yet seemed more reliable, more sturdy than the French. With some minor difficulty, Sal pushed the door into the frame of the entrance and screwed the nails in. The entire job took him about half an hour, and when he finished Sal swung the door open and slammed it shut, the echo it made was music to his ears. Inside the house Sal sat in the living room with the TV on, looking at the screen but not paying any attention to it. A feeling of resolution settled him. He had just finished putting away his almost stolen valuables in a box under his bed. The safe was in the trash along with the doormat and the shards of glass. Sitting in the recliner, Sal's thoughts drifted once again to Death. He thought of Glen Cromwell's daughter, whatever her name was, the beautiful girl in the antique shop. He pictured her with himself. He pictured her dying by his side, a tear slipping out of her eye. He sat up and cursed himself. Why must he insist on thinking these thoughts? These morbid thoughts of dying? A voice answered him. Because its natural. Because it is the most beautiful thing that anybody could do. There was a knock on the door. It startled Sal, for he wasn't used to this sort of knock. It was deeper, heavier, like a drum. You couldn't make such a knock on the glass of a French door. He stood form the chair and walked to the door. It knocked again before him, and he grabbed the knob, the wonderful new knob that grew out of the door like a natural stigmata. He squeezed it and turned it. The door glided open. There was nobody on the porch. The voice came to him late in the night. He lay in bed, the sheets hot around him. The voice was the girl's, and it had said, It is the most beautiful thing you could do. The door to his bedroom opened suddenly and she walked in, her hair large like a tree, and she leaned over his bed and handed him a key, and the key was cold in his hand, like ice, it felt like the door knob, rich and powerful and indestructible. She leaned over the bed and cried above him, cried her eyes out, spilling thick tears onto him like blood, and she closed his hand that held the key and whispered in his ear: Because it's natural. When he woke it was morning and the town was quiet. Instead of the passing of cars, the rumble of motors and the squeals of honks, he could hear the voice of the ocean clearly. The waves, and the wind. Sal stretched in his bed and thought of the girl in the antique shop. Her yellow dress flowed just above the valleys of curves on her body. Her long legs were thick with strength, even though he never saw them he could see them now. Her gorgeous hair wrapped atop her head, which to Sal seemed to have been the only source of life in the room. Sal ran a hand through his own gray hair. Gray. He could feel the cold presence again. The hair on his head was a symbol of Deaths arrival, a message. There was another knock on the door. It was loud and it echoed all throughout the house. The knock brought Sal out of bed who then robed himself. Who is disturbing me at this Absurd Hour of the Morning, Sal whined to himself, feeling his face twist into an annoyed scowl. Who dares disturb me when I am in bed, dreaming of the Antique Girl. Pausing at the door, Sal tied the belt of his robe and said, “Hold on, hold on.” When he touched the door knob it tickled his fingers, and he released the cold knob. A electrical sensation ran down his wrist and tickled his bones. Sal dismissed the feeling and opened the door. Again there was nobody at the door. Sal laughed, mocking the mysterious absence. Damn kids. Miguel Fernandez popped into his mind. The image of him on the ground, dying on the porch, a bag of Sal's money and valuables next to him, the blood and the glass. A shiver ran up Sal's wrist again and pumped throughout the rest of the body. Sal was about to shut the door and go back to bed, go back to thinking of the Cromwell Girl, when his eye caught a rather strange box sitting above the blood stain. It was a package, addressed to him, Sal Greene. Below his name was no address or street name, just Sal's own name. He stooped down and picked up the box. It was neither heavy nor light. Shaking it gently, it made a hollow sound. He flipped it around in his hands and noticed a single strand of tape rounding the folding. He scratched at the tape with a fingernail and peeled it off. Sal turned and went back into the house, shutting the mahogany door with an excellent slam. That door belonged in this house, he thought. The box was small in both of his hands. He pried open the cardboard flaps and stared into a cloud of bubble wrap. He pulled out the wrap, popping some bubbles for fun, and revealed a smaller box. He grabbed it and opened the lid. A small gold key with an ancient design. Under the key was a small note. Here is the key to your new door. - L.C. Sal smiled at the curvy text, belonging only to L. Cromwell The antique store girl. Sal set the key back in the box and and sat back in the chair at his desk. His eyes landed on the piece of paper he wrote on the other night. I am the one who has peeked over the shoulder of God. He took the paper and crumpled it beneath his hand and tossed it in the wastepaper basket next to the desk. The box with the key sat alone on the desktop. He opened the box and studied the key. The gold color was rusted slightly but the intricate design absolved the fading beauty. Sal took the strange key and walked to the door, sticking it in the knob. A perfect fit. That night Sal was sitting at the dining room table eating spaghetti. He twisted the fork around and around, tangling the spaghetti and sucking it into his stomach. The front door was locked. The key was in his pocket. Sal had left the house once that day, at his usual time of five o'clock to go for a walk. He was stupefied though, as he drifted along the shore, noticing that there was not one person out. The waves roared as usual, swallowing itself and then regurgitating itself back onto the beach. But there were no footprints in the wet sand to dissolve. There were no children splashing in the waves. Just Sal. Sal thought about returning to the antique store to thank the Cromwell girl for delivering the key to him. She must have delivered it personally, because there was no address mark or stamp. She had Sal's home address, he had given it to her in the shop. But if she did deliver it herself, then why had she knocked on the door and disappeared before he could answer it? Of course, she is just a silly girl. Even now as Sal enjoyed his saucy Italian cuisine, his thoughts drifted to the girl. He thought of her and he thought of the door and he thought of the key. He thought of the girl. The girl. The girl. Who is she? Another knock bangs the door, and Sal almost chokes on his meal. The knocks do not cease once he stands from the table. The impatient knocks echo like a drum. Sal walks very slowly to the door, the knocks double pacing his footsteps. He stands before it and turns the knob and opens the door. “Hello.” A girl he has not seen before stands on the bloodstain on the porch. She is extremely thin, her body is all skeleton. There is a black hood above her head and her pale face is like a skull. She holds a clipboard in a small hand and reaches it out to Sal. “Could you sign this assuring that the package has reached its destination?” The voice. He recognized the voice immediately. It is the girl, the antique store girl. But she looks so different. She looks dead. But just the other day he had gazed upon her with hungry eyes, he had basked in her beauty. Sal accepts the clipboard. “Is this for the door?” She doesn't say anything. The paper is blank. “Where do I sign?” “On the paper.” Sal stared into her face, the eyes blank and dead. He signed his name. “Be sure to lock up.” she said. She turned away. “Wait,” Sal started after her but he slipped on the porch. He looked up but she was gone. Vanished. Sal turned into the house and locked the door. When he awoke he was still tired. Sal went to the kitchen but there was no coffee. He would have to walk up the street to the store and buy some. There was rain beyond the windows and he dressed for it. Locking the door once again he started out. The streets were empty. There were no cars, no people. He arrived at the store but it was closed. He peeked through the windows and saw that the lights were off. He past the store and decided to walk to another. But the next was closed. And the next. They were all closed. It was as if everybody had left town. Did they all leave on purpose? Thunder sounded. Is there a storm coming that everyone knew about except him? Back to the house. He unlocked the door and went in. it was freezing inside, he could see his breath. Shivering, he went to the bed and got under the covers. He buried himself in the bed, dug himself a grave of blankets. There was a knock on the door. “WHAT IS IT NOW?” He answered the door and there stood Death. Death was very kind. He said he didn't want to alarm Sal, but that it was time to leave. Sal said, Why? Why do I have to leave my home? And Death said, This isn't your home. This angered Sal. Why, he had lived here for forty years. It was his home, his only home! Sal protested and Death took him by the hand. He led him along the beach. Death pointed out into the sea, and it was then that Sal realized the ocean was red. Body parts floated with the tide, an eyeball was tangled in seaweed. Blood and brains splashed in giant waves.. Death said, this is your home. Sal awoke from the dream in sweat. He ran to the door. He needed to get out of the house. He choked on the stale air, he needed fresh air. Sal gripped the doorknob, but it was locked. He dug his hands in his pockets, looking for the key, but it wasn't in his pockets. He tugged on the door. He pulled and pushed and yanked the doorknob. He felt it budge. He pulled with all of the strength that was left in his body, just to get outside and breathe fresh air. He pulled and he felt the hinges creak and loosen. The door unhinged itself and fell on top of Sal, crushing his sternum and puncturing his lungs. Sal felt the pain, but only for a short time. He felt the blood in his body fill his lungs like a plastic bag with a hole in it. Sal died with the mahogany door on top of him, his feet sticking out like claws. On the porch stood the Cromwell girl. She had her hand raised, about to knock.
© 2014 ChadvonswanAuthor's Note
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ChadvonswanThe West, CAAboutCHADVONSWAN = MAX REAGAN [What's Write is Right] My book of short stories.. http://www.lulu.com/shop/max-reagan/thoughts- of-ink/paperback/product-22122339.html more..Writing
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