THE DOOR
Copyright (c) Rick Yost

The year is 547 BC. The place is Anatolia, now known as Turkey. After uniting the three tribes of Persia, Cyrus the Great set out to “Conquer the World” (the known world at that point anyway) He conquered the Median Empire, the Babylonian Empire, and next in line was the Lydian Empire. This is where he hit a stumbling block. Lydia was the wealthiest kingdom in Anatolia, and had a large, well supported, and well-trained army. Cyrus attacked its capitol city of Sardis twice, and was defeated both times.
On the opposing side, Croesus (Pronounced: CrEEsus) was the King of Lydia; known primarily for his great wealth. However he was just as notorious for being cruel and deadly towards his enemies, his own Advisors, Generals, and Lydian subjects. Everyone feared him. Suffering from paranoia- he saw assassins hiding everywhere, and was constantly convinced there was a conspiracy against him.
Croesus had one Advisor which he still trusted- Fardad. Fardad had been an Advisor to Croesus’ father, Alyattes- the previous King of Lydia. Fardad was an ominous figure in Anatolia lore. Known and feared for his knowledge of Dark Magic and the “un-natural”; Fardad had proven himself a great seer, and powerful Magician. As a part of his father’s court, Fardad had been a part of Croesus’ life since childhood. The King considered him a trusted friend.
King Croesus threw open the flap of his royal tent and stepped out into the warm morning breeze. The King’s twenty, ever-present security soldiers surrounding his tent, snapped to attention, their swords, and arrowed-bows at the ready. He paid them no attention.
The skies were dark and threatening. He disliked the area he had chosen to camp- the hills around them offered countless hiding places for his enemies. However, the more than one hundred horses, ridden by the soldiers in his travel compliment, were on the brink of collapse. He had to stop. Another two days travel and he would be back home in Sardis.
“Mephisus!” he yelled. The King was in his late forties, tall, broad shouldered, and handsome- just like his father. “Mephisus, where are you?” The King repeated, more urgently.
”I am here your Majesty! I am here!” came the muffled reply from behind the tents.
“Your forgiveness my King.” The servant- middle-aged, short, thin, and out of breath, ran up to the king bowing as he slowed to a stop. His station in life was to assist the King and be at his call-always. “Oh Great Croesus, son of the Great Alyattes, please forgive me my sloth. I was tending to private matters.” He knelt on one knee and bowed his head.
Bright glare from the overcast sky made the King squint. He finally answered; not wishing to look upon the small man any more than was necessary. “Yes Mephisus,” He wrinkled his face. “I believe the stench of your ‘private matters’ have followed you as will a dog.”
“My humblest apologies my King.” He trembled, fearing he had offended the King. Other servants had been killed for less.
“Never mind. I’ve just finished my morning bedding. I will require cleansing.” The King kept his eyes on the hills and spoke in a matter of fact tone.
“Yes my King! Right away, my King!”

Croesus was a fierce warrior, an effective military strategist, and was fairly competent at the political affairs of his Kingdom. However, he did have one weakness he could not shake, his taste for women- young women. He boasted an obsessive love of his Queen. This was not a love at all; it was a desire to possess a woman who would be as loyal to him, as his mother had been to his father. His present Queen was his fourth wife in the past eight years. She had been with him for two years now. The previous Queens had all been either killed for their disloyalty, were unable to survive the King’s sadistic sexual perversions, or they simply grew too adult. His present Queen was seventeen.

Mephisus stepped to a utility tent a few yards away. From there he fetched a soft cloth and a bowl of floral-scented water. He quickly returned to the King who remained waiting outside the entrance to the tent. Croesus appeared regal, standing straight, gazing up to the sky, as if observing the entirety of his domain.
The servant knelt directly in front of the King. The King pulled open his robe, and held it open with his hands on his hips, revealing the gold handled dagger which he carried everywhere, and his nakedness underneath. He then directed his most trusted of servants, “You may proceed Mephisus!”
“Thank you my Lord!” The servant began gently washing the King’s genitals. This was a typical royal practice. After sex, royals would bathe- at least their private areas, to rid themselves of the lingering natural scents of their partners.
It had been a taxing journey and equally taxing visit with Dorthos, the King’s Greek ally in Northern Anatolia. Dorthos was an uncivilized, ill-mannered wretch, but as a high-volume merchant, he had his ear to the Northern shores of the King’s realm, and that was well worth any distaste. At the end of their visit, Dorthos presented a gift to the King; no doubt courting the King’s continued favor. He gave him what were described as three of his favorite young bed-women. The King knew very well they weren’t really Dorthos’ favorites, but polite politics were always appreciated. And the King could never pass up a young bed-woman, the younger the better.
“I trust you are enjoying the Greek’s gift to you my Lord.” Mephisus reverently asked as he performed one of the most honored of royal chores.
“Yes Mephisus, very much.” The King replied with a slight smile, as he crouched slightly to allow better access to all of the royal areas.
“I am most fond of the youngest one- the one who tended me this morning. In fact, I will keep her for the rest of this journey. You may remove the other two. Let my Generals have them. No, better yet, let the troops fight over them!”
“As you wish my King.”

The news the King received from Dorthos was troubling. The Persian they call Cyrus the Great and his army were heading south toward Sardis for his third attempt to sack the royal fortress. It had been three months since the last attack. Now that Cyrus had regrouped and fortified his army, he was ready to try again. Reports were he was still at least six days journey away. The King was very anxious to return and make preparations for the imminent battle.

Mephisus was nearing the end of the royal cleansing when a Lieutenant flanked by two armed soldiers appeared. Not expecting to find the King outside of his tent, they stopped at the reverent distance of four paces from his Majesty, knelt down, bowed their heads, and felt very uncomfortable to be witnessing such a personal royal activity. “Your Majesty!” The young Lieutenant spoke with respect, “I bring you a message from Sardis. It is from the hand of Counselor Fardad.”
“Come forward messenger!” The King commanded.
The Lieutenant stepped forward and handed the note to the King who then said, “You may go.” The King looked at the messenger suspiciously. Something about him made the King uneasy.
The lieutenant bowed as he backed away, “Honor to the King!” Then he and his escorts left. The King turned to the tent guard closest to him and directed, “You will follow that Lieutenant, and kill him!”
The soldier answered with a shaky voice, “Yes my King! Right away my King!” The soldier stepped quickly after the messenger and disappeared between the tents.
The royal cleansing complete, the King closed his robe and re-entered his tent. The royal tent was very large- fifty feet across, round and tall. Sparsely furnished, it contained the royal bed, a table of breakfast and wine, and several burning torch-urns hanging from support poles for light. Next to the King’s bed was a smaller bed- veiled with a white sheer that hung from the high top of the tent. There on the veiled bed, was the beautiful young woman he had used earlier. She was fifteen, bruised here and there from the King’s love making, and fearful for her life. Mephisus had taken the other two women away as ordered. Their fate would be no better.
“Leave me!” the King demanded in a deep growling voice - never looking up from the note. The girl jumped up and exited the tent without a sound.
A message arriving from such a distance was never good news. It read:
Your Majesty, I am sad to say you were correct in your distrust of the Queen. Consider using the passageway and witness for yourself. – Your faithful Fardad
Suddenly, the desert wind blew hard against the tent wall- howling as if angry spirits had read the note over his shoulder. He shuddered and nervously looked about for hidden spectres.
The betrayal by his Queen did little to calm his paranoia. He could only imagine what other atrocities were being commited in his royal city during his absence. He wouldn’t have made this journey if he'd had a ‘second’ or General he could trust to go in his stead. His Queen now turned enemy-infidel, Fardad was the only ally King Creosus dared trust.
It was his fear of specters, demons, Dark Magic, and the unknown that kept him from doing as Fardad had suggested. His paranoia sometimes made him indecisive, but now his anger toward the Queen was lighting a fire of rage.
He threw the note into the torch flames and stormed out of the tent. Once outside, he turned, selectively pointed to his guards, and spoke angrily.
“You four, come with me!” The chosen soldiers walked in tandem behind the King’s quick purposeful gait. A hundred yards away they reached a tiny tent. Still near the center of the camp, surrounded by the King’s troops, it was a drab structure, twelve-feet across, resembling a common utility tent. Not the type of tent the guards would expect the King to enter.
The King stopped just outside, turned, and spoke to the guards in his best royal timbre, “While I am inside, you are honor-bound to guard this tent with your life. No one enters- no one even approaches! Do you understand?” The guards all respond in kind,”Yes, my King!”
Inside, where the guards could not see him, he nervously looked about like a frightened ferret. Just entering the tent was un-nerving. The Dark Magic of Fardad had always made him uneasy- even frightened. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Even the fire burning in the urn next to the entrance did little to help him see.
There it stood in the middle of the room, covered with a drape. Except for the torch and the King, it was the only thing in the tent. He stepped forward and pulled the drape away; revealing the passage Fardad spoke of in his note.
It stood only a few inches taller than the King, and slightly wider than a man. Made of wood from the sacred ‘Ished’ tree, it had been expertly built by the best Lydian artisans. It was comprised of two cylindrical uprights on either side, with a matching piece, laid flat across the top. Completely covering the smooth, wooden surface, were carved the Dark Magical incantations Fardad used to make the object functional. It was one of an identical pair of wooden portal pieces designed by Fardad’s Dark wizardry. The other half of this Magical doorway, unknown to the Queen, was presently standing behind a decorative wall drape in the Queen’s bedchamber at Sardis.
King Croesus was still two days travel away from Sardis and his Queen. Two days time was far too long to wait to confront her.
He was about to put all his faith in the hands of an old Magician, and attempt to step through the doorway in front of him, and come out the other side in his Queen’s bower. Being this close to becoming a part of Fardad’s Dark Magic made him shiver.
Although Fardad had made the King a gift of the portal over a month ago, until today, the King did not have enough reason, or courage to risk his life in such an un-natural journey. Now anger was driving him.
The benign appearance of the doorway gave no hint of the Dark Magic It concealed. Just as looking through any doorway, he could see through the portal to the tent wall and the dirt floor on the other side. Still suspicious- still fearful, he put his hand up to the empty space in the middle of the doorway, pushed his fingers through the middle, and to his amazement, watched them disappear.
”Wholly Mother Cybele!” He recoiled with a gasp, and grabbed the disappearing fingers with his other hand, as if a fire had burned him. He assessed them to find no ill effect. “This is madness!” the King mumbled to himself. He then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and bravely stepped forward into the doorway. The King completely disappeared from the inside of the tent. Outside, the guards stood watch, oblivious to the King’s absence.
He entered a place of total darkness, accompanied only by total silence. He tried to remember Fardad’s instructions: He was not to stop walking, and he must walk in a straight line. Fear mounted within him, more than once he fought the urge to turn around. Hearing only his own erratic breathing was only making it worse.
After blindly walking a distance of eight paces, he saw a red light in his path ahead. The further he walked, the brighter the light became. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reached the other doorway. He recognized the bright red color of the Queen’s bedchamber drapes.
With great relief he let go a silent sigh, and with the sleeve of his royal robe, wiped the sweat from his brow. He paused, standing just inside- listening. Then he felt foolish; he wouldn’t hear any sound inside doorway. He stepped out of the door and stood with his face against the backside of the drapery. He stood silent and still.
The sheer fabric allowed him to see inside the room. He stood across the from the Queen’s bed. Now, out of the darkness and the silence he could hear music from a lyre being played just outside in the hallway. He could also hear noise from the direction of the Queen’s bed. This prompted him to pull the drapery aside and step forward. Then he could see his Queen in her bed. She faced away from him, on her hands and knees, lost in rapture. Behind her was a large, brown-skinned man, repeatedly thrusting his member into the Queen’s royal-ness.
Sickened by the scene before him, the King trembled with rage, yet remained silent. While the two lovers were engrossed in their lovemaking, he quietly moved across the room. He approached the edge of the bed with the stealth of a warrior, pulled his dagger from under his robe. Holding the dagger with both hands, he raised it high above the bed and forcefully stabbed the man in the back. The man grunted his last noise, and then fell lifeless onto the Queen’s back. “What are you doing?” The Queen said as she collapsed under the weight of the dead man on top of her. Straining to free herself, she turned to look over her shoulder. There stood her King, glaring at her through red angry eyes. With look of total shock and horror on her face, she scrambled to crawl from beneath the heavy corpse. “Croesus!” she screamed. “Croesus, wait!”
“I should have known you would betray me you whore!” He leaned over the bed, retrieved his dagger from the back of the dead man, and raised it high once again- this time over her.
“Your Heaven awaits you my Queen!” He declared in a sarcastic growl. Just before he could plunge the blade and collect his revenge, she quickly yelled, “Fardad!” Hearing this, the King stopped and looked down at her in bewilderment. Why would she feel that yelling for Fardad would save her?
Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him. He turned as two screaming, masked assassins- dressed in black, came running from the Magic doorway to attack him. He turned and fought valiantly- killing one. However, the other delivered the fatal blow with his saber. The King fell to the floor- bleeding to death. He looked at his Queen- calmly donning her robe. Why does she not fear this assassin? Then from the hallway, he heard a familiar voice.
“My apologies my King!” the magician spoke with mock sincerity. “It’s a shame things had to be this way.” As he spoke he slowly walked across the room to stand over the King. Dressed in a black robe, he was a tall, elderly man, with a long gray beard. The King; wincing in pain, and chilled- feeling his life drain away with his blood, whispered the question, “Why Fardad? I trusted you!”
The magician smiled and replied, “Yes you did my King. In fact, without that trust, I wouldn’t have been able to get you alone without the protection of your guards.” He smiled at the King like a man calmly explaining the rules to a game of chance.
Near his last breath, the King looked up to the last person in the world he expected to betray him and asked once again, “Why Fardad, just tell me why.”
The old man answered, “Well, it’s very simple really. A Persian named Cyrus approached me several months ago and offered me a small fortune to betray you. What he offered was a small fortune to him, a large fortune to me. He needed to find a way to get past your defenses. Croesus the Fearful…” He joked. “…always had his guards around him. So I conjured the doorway and presented it to you. I know you well Croesus. I knew the betrayal of your Queen would tempt you to use the portal.”
Fardad turned to the assassin standing next to him and said, “The services of the Queen are no longer needed!” The assassin immediately turned with the King’s own gold-handled dagger, and stabbed it into the Queen’s chest. She fell to the floor and died with a confused look on her face.
Fardad continued calmly. “My own land and home my dear young pupil, I have to think of my old-age, you see! Besides, I’m tired of being un-appreciated for my talents by you, just as I was by your father. I’m tired of being just another one of your valuable advisors, or more to point, I’m sick of being one of your servants. From now on, I work my magic for my own interests.”
Moments later, the King was dead. The King’s traveling legion, waiting two days away, were attacked and slaughtered by an army of Persian troops.
Cyrus then sent his troops through the portal, who then took control of the royal palace from the inside, and essentially took the entire city of Sardis with ease. It was said that after the last of the Persian troops went through, the entry portal was burned to keep the same thing from happening to the new occupiers. The portal in the Queen’s chamber was not destroyed, but rather it was rapped in the red drapery that concealed it in the Queen’s chamber, and put inside King Croesus burial chamber- a reflection of Fardad’s sick sense of humor.

When asked about any lingering magic to the door, Fardad replied, “Without its twin as destination portal, anything that enters the single door might simply cease to exist. There are times when the nature of even my own magic can elude me!”

Mid-October, 1958

The bullet shattered the rear window, went through the driver’s head, and out the windshield. The inside of the glass was splattered with blood obscuring the view of the dark, treacherous road ahead. Pickford had to pry the dead man’s hands from the steering wheel. He then used the sleeve of his overcoat to wipe a clean spot on the glass to see through. More shots were fired, another bullet whizzed past his ear and went through the windshield.
”Fuck!” He blurted. He’d never been so scared in his life. The truck slowed down while Pickford reached across the driver’s slumped body, and pulled up on the door handle. The dead man had been Pickford’s assistant and good friend for twelve years. Now with tears in his eyes he shoved Dylan’s lifeless body out of the driver door onto the swift moving dirt road below.
“I’m sorry buddy!”
More shots were fired. The headlights of the car giving chase lit up the inside of the truck cab like daylight. Pickford stood on the accelerator and cautiously leaned his head out the driver door window to see ahead. Both vehicles drove dangerously fast down the loose-gravel country road.
Seeing he was gradually pulling away from the murderous cruiser gave him a little hope. Then a bullet ripped through his right shoulder. The force of the bullet sent his shoulder crashing forward into the steering wheel. He nearly lost control of the vehicle. His left hand was too busy steering to grab the wound as the pain demanded. He had to get out of this predicament now.
With the help of a few fortunate hills and inclines, he was able to put some distance between his lightweight truck and the assassin’s heavy sedan. Now the terrain became level once more.
The chase continued down the dirt road passing endless fields of tall corn on either side.
Pickford couldn’t tell how many men were in the car, but he was sure Habhil wasn’t one of them. Power drives men like Habhil mad enough to kill for what they want, but they’re rarely brave enough to do it themselves.
They were traveling up a slight incline. Pickford could see the road was about to take them over an irrigation culvert. He carefully considered the half-mile the Cadillac lagged behind. If he was lucky, after he topped the fast approaching rise in the road, there would be a brief moment when they wouldn’t be able to see him. He decided to take a chance. He had to do something.
It came up quick, and he was right. Just past the crest of the hill he quickly shut off his lights, avoided hitting his brakes, and veered sharply off the road to the left. He aimed the truck directly into a six-foot tall cornfield. The initial impact was like hitting a wall. He put his good arm up, shielding his face from the ears of corn, and shattered pieces of windshield -turned projectiles. He could only pray that he wasn't seen entering the field and they went right past him.
With the accelerator still floored, he plowed blindly through the field. The stalks and ears of corn smashed against the truck making a thunderous noise. He grit his teeth, and turned the wheel a little to the left and held it there.
Only able to exert a feeble hold on the wheel with his right hand, pain compelled him to let go with his left and squeeze the wounded shoulder. He closed his eyes tight and wept, wishing this torrent of forced survival would stop.
“Habhil you son-of-a-bitch!” He yelled. A yell even he could hardly hear for the deafening, pounding noise around him.
He thought of how sad and maddening it was to lose yet another loved one because of his discovery. It had first taken his young wife Lanetta from him, and now his dear friend Dylan had been murdered because of it. Before the night was through, it might be the death of him as well. But he would not just give it up, not without a fight worthy of both their memories.
As it made the wide left turn through the field, the truck jumped and bounced over rows of corn stalks. He winced with pain as his body was tossed about the cab. He opened his eyes in the near total darkness, and tightened his bloody grip on the bottom of the steering wheel.
Suddenly, the thunderous din ceased. The truck had come full circle and exited the cornfield close to the point of entry. With a bushel’s worth of corn on the hood, leaves and stalks caught in the wipers and grill, the truck bounced all the way across to the other side of the road before coming to a rest. He stopped and took a moment to regain his bearings. Keeping a watchful eye in both directions, he steered the truck onto the road and headed back the way he came. In his rear-view-mirror, he could see the faint red glow of the killer's taillights at least a mile behind him. They were still searching for him. He hoped they stayed confused long enough for him to get away.
He threw a glance over his shoulder, relieved to see the crate was still in the back of the truck. He wondered if it had sustained any damage from the ordeal. He saw several splintered holes where bullets had torn at the wood.
He drove for a mile or more before he turned his headlights back on. He made his way out of the cornfield back-roads, and found the highway.
It had been thirty minutes now since Dylan had been murdered and he’d escaped. He was shaking, and bleeding heavily. He feared if he didn’t get medical attention soon, he might pass out. He was just west of Boston, driving through the residential streets of Cambridge. He was searching for a hiding place for the crate. Feeling ill and about to head for another area to look, he spotted a house that might just work.
He pulled into the driveway and scanned the lot. It was a new home under construction. Still in the framing stage, it was nothing but stick-built walls, and planked floors. Turning off his headlights, he gently drove the truck down the short drive and around to the rear of the house. He then backed the truck up close to the structure and turned off the engine.
Stepping out of the truck, he stood up from sitting for so long and felt pain flush the whole right side of his body. He leaned against the truck feeling cold and very ill. He strained to focus his eyes in the dark. He scanned the dirt lot around him, and the adjoining yards the best he could. Feeling he could search no more in his condition, he accepted it as the best spot available. Fairly sure no one was watching, he set about his task.
The crate was not extremely heavy, but its size did make it quite cumbersome. It measured roughly seven feet long by five feet wide and one foot thick. Its dimensions were wider and longer than the pickup bed, so it was loaded at an angle and extended out past the open tailgate.
He found two long two-by-fours in a stack of lumber and shoved them between the tailgate and the crate. He then climbed up into the bed and pushed the crate out onto the two-by-fours using them as runners. At the balancing-midway point, he tilted his end up and let the crate slide down the wood to the ground. Then he pulled the truck away letting the crate fall flat on the dirt.
Now came the painful, physical part. With one shoulder bleeding heavily, he pushed the crate as far under the house as he could. He then laid on his back and used his feet to shove the big wooden box the rest of the way under the structure. He climbed to his feet and took a quick walk around the area to make sure the crate couldn’t be easily spotted. Exhausted and feeling sick, he climbed into the truck. Planning to come back for the crate after a day or so, he made note of the house address as he quietly drove away.

He never made it back to the crate. The men in the Cadillac caught up with him a half-hour later. Although refusing to divulge to them the location of the crate was admirable, it proved fatal. His body was found floating in the Charles River the next day.
It was mid-October, 1958.

The crate remained hidden. The house was completed, and the crawlspace was covered with siding. In the years that followed a succession of families and individuals occupied the house. Ownership changed hands several times. In 1982 carpenters making repairs discovered the crate and pulled it from beneath the floorboards. They placed it un-opened in the garage where it was soon forgotten.

It is now present day.
It is springtime on a cool and crisp Sunday morning. Patrick and Polly Simak have just spent their first night in the house as its new owners. With all four of their children grown and moved away, the former family home was just too big to deal with. When their realtor told them that this quaint little two bedroom home was available, they jumped on it.
Retired from a fifty-year career as a furniture salesman, Patrick retained his quick smile and friendly face from habit. It was a year ago that Patrick had been forced to retire. Being forced to spend all his time with his wife Polly, had recently led to a depression that he tried valiantly to hide.
Patrick was a very average fellow. Average height, weight, build, and the average gray hair of a sixty-six year old man. He missed working. He was somebody at work. He liked that.
After fifty years of helping his employer's small business grow into a large corporation, they took away his keys, gave him a pat on the back, and a gold watch.
“Why in the hell do they give you a watch when you retire? They should give you a watch while you’re still working and have reason to track time. A retired person with nothing to do doesn’t give a rat’s ass what time it is!”
For over forty years his days were full of meeting new people, conversing and joking with his friends and co-workers, and being recognized for his good work. Now he stays home all day and is forced to listen to his wife bitch at him.
Polly Simak, also sixty-six, was a disgruntled and bitter woman who chose to live her life as a housewife. Now that her life was almost over, she felt cheated. She thought Patrick would eventually become rich or at least someone important. She married him because she just knew he would one day afford her the comfortable lifestyle she knew she deserved. It never happened.
Patrick got up with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. He planned to spend most of his day exploring his new home. Downstairs in the unfamiliar kitchen, he put a pot of coffee on to brew. Then he snatched a couple of cookies from the jar, grabbed his sweater and ventured out the door from the kitchen to the attached garage.
Beneath the light bulb and pull-chain dangling from the center of the ceiling was the only empty floor space in the room. The structure was just big enough for the realtor to tout it as a two-car garage. Even empty, Patrick couldn’t see fitting two cars inside it. Presently it was loaded with their stuff from the old house. There were stacks of furniture, assorted household items, and many waist–high stacks of boxes full of that useless, miscellaneous stuff that you never need, but can’t bring yourself to throw away.
He nibbled on a cookie as he casually inspected the water heater. It appeared to be operating properly. Next he attempted to read the faded labels to the switches in the electrical box on the wall. Patrick knew nothing of either plumbing or electricity, but had the best of intentions, and a whole day of creative puttering to do.
While venturing way back in the corner, he discovered the crate. He pulled the sheet of dust and cobweb covered plywood away that had hidden it for many years.
The crate was very old and weathered with faded shipping labels here and there. He could also see what he decided were bullet holes in the wood. Except for large black arrows directing to stand it on end, the only print still legible was in a foreign language. “Arabic maybe.” he thought.
His curiosity was peaked. After clearing a path through the piles of stuff, he managed to drag it to the middle of the room, where he stood it upright as the arrows directed. This was quite an effort for a man his age, considering the crate was much larger than he was, but he was hooked and determined to check out the contents of this mysterious box.
After pulling nails and splitting boards with a pry bar, he managed to reveal a dark, beautifully carved, wooden doorframe. “Marvelous!” he said.
It was way too ornate and grand for his modest home. He thought it might fit a parlor or formal dining room in a mansion. The more he examined it, the more mysterious it became. He concluded it wasn’t a conventional doorframe- designed to support a hinged door; it was a doorway- meant to be freestanding. The eight-inch round, cylindrical legs and header piece were covered with bands of intricate, carved patterns and geometric shapes. From his furniture experience, he knew a bit about woods but couldn’t say what the doorway was made of.
The surrounding crate now removed, there were still wooden supports crisscrossing the middle of the doorway. As he attempted to remove them, he found a small book marked “Journal” between the boards. Old and weathered, the handwritten sixty or so discolored pages were filled front and back with writing. Inside the cover was written, R.L.Pickford, PhD. Patrick thumbed through the notebook and became so engrossed he pulled up a box of stuff, sat down and read it from cover to cover.
From the journal he learned Dr. R. L. Pickford taught Archeology and World History at Harvard University in Cambridge, MA. In 1956 he married his young research assistant, Lanetta Crawford. The next year they traveled to Egypt where he purchased many historical artifacts and antiquities for the University. He happened upon the doorway in a back-alley antique shop in Cairo. Pickford hadn’t considered it to be an exceptional find but the shopkeeper cut the price drastically and threw it in with the other items being purchased just to get it out of his store. It made the boat trip back to the states along with several dozen items.
After returning from abroad Pickford was swiftly engulfed in University duties and a heavy teaching schedule. The doorway was partially un-crated, tagged and placed in a corner of his library. For the next ten months it stood a few feet from his desk where his time was spent wading through bureaucratic paperwork, grant applications, and grading student papers.
One night something fateful happened; a pencil fell from his desk.
Pickford wrote:
The pencil hit the floor and rolled away from me. Before I could bend and reach it, I watched it roll directly through the legs of the upright doorway and disappear. I froze bent over for a long moment trying to make sense of what I had just witnessed. I could see the floor and baseboard through the doorway but the pencil had vanished. The rest of the journal consisted of documented experiments, notes, mathematical equations, diagrams and drawings.
Nearing the end of the journal, Pickford showed how much of a man of science he really was as he struggled to document an unfortunate accident with the doorway. Late one evening his young wife Lanetta came to his study to call him to bed for the evening. Not knowing Pickford had moved the doorway from one side of the poorly lit room to the other, she casually entered the familiar room and strolled right through the doorway. Pickford looked up from writing just in time to see her go through. She was never to be seen again. The next several entries in the journal were sketchy at best, and at times, understandably incoherent.
The last few entries told of a Turkish antiques dealer named Habhil who’d heard of the doorway and offered repeatedly to buy it from Pickford. Habhil said he’d been looking for the doorway for years and became very insistent. Pickford seemed to have the impression that the man would do anything to acquire it.
Of course, Patrick had to remove the cross-members from the doorway and check it out for himself. How could he not?
Working now with a heightened excitement, and taking great care, he pulled the nails that secured the middle supports. With the doorway now completely un-crated and standing free, he hesitantly reached for the space in the center with his fingers. “This is silly!” He said, trying to steady his nerve. Then he held his breath, pushed his fingers through and watched them disappear. Suddenly frightened, he gasped and yanked his hand back quickly to find nothing missing. It was such a bizarre experience, he couldn’t help but look around the room, checking for witnesses.
He was about to try again when he heard his wife coming from the house. From the direction of her voice, she had come out the front door and was approaching the garage from outside. Panicked, he looked around the room for a quick way to hide the doorway.
“Patrick, where the hell are you?” she called in that demanding, irritating voice he was so sick of. He heard her steps outside in the driveway. She pulled up the lightweight, aluminum garage door with an unceremonious yank. The door swung up and over Patrick’s head causing him to flinch and duck his head. The big door hit its stops with a bang making the springs rattle loudly for a long, irritating time.
“Damn it Polly!” he frowned from the noise and harsh sunlight. Now illuminated, a shower of fine dust fell from the rarely opened door. He brushed off his shoulders and the top of his balding head.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” She demanded. “You said you’d bring me my coffee and pills over an hour ago!”
“Damn.” He had become so engrossed in his discovery, he had forgotten.
She squinted and strained to see his face in the darker interior of the garage. With her unruly, gray, fresh-out-of-bed hair blowing in the breeze, she closed her robe around her nightgown and shuffled her fuzzy slippers inside for her first glimpse of their new garage. “What the hell is that?” She asked pointing to the doorway.
“Oh, this?” He flashed his practiced, salesman smile and replied nervously, “It’s just some old doorframe they’d stuck back in the corner.”
While she gazed around the rest of the room he grabbed a bed-sheet from a box of old linens and tried his best to nonchalantly drape it over the doorway. He was hoping to conceal the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, from his wife of forty-two years. She was an expert at making him feel stupid, foolish, and irresponsible. He knew somehow-someway, she would suck the life out of this bright spot in his existence like she had done everything else in his life.
Wanting to take her attention with him, he walked away from the doorway and tried to sound concerned. “I’m sorry Polly, I’d set up the coffee maker and stepped out here while it finished. I forgot all about bringing you your pills.”
She didn’t go for it. “Wait, let me see that thing again.” She sidestepped him and walked right up to it.
He reluctantly turned back to the doorway, closed his eyes, and cursed his luck. “It’s really nothing, just some old doorframe that was left over…”
Before he could finish, she’d pulled the sheet off and was checking it out with that skeptical, sour look on her face. “So I guess you’re going to want to spend money trying to restore it or some such nonsense!”
Her foot tangled in the sheet she’d let fall to the floor. She stumbled, fell straight through the doorway, and silently disappeared. The sheet was still being dragged through with her. It wrapped around one leg of the doorway, yanked it backwards, and caused it to fall forward. Eyes wide in disbelief, mouth agape, Patrick took one short step forward, raised his hands over his head and easily caught it.
There he stood in shock for a long moment, holding the tipped doorway and staring at the space in the middle. “Polly?” he said in a fearful whisper. He could not believe what had just happened. His mind convulsed with many different thoughts, as he stood frozen, afraid to move. He slowly stepped forward and stood the doorway upright. He felt the urge to go through after her, but fear stopped him, “What if I can’t come back?” He put his fingers up to the space where she went through and closed his eyes amidst his mental dilemma.
He stared down at a bizarre sight. The sheet appeared cut in half at the door-line as if with a pair of shears. He carefully tugged on it with his toe and found he could pull it all the way back- unscathed. She didn’t come back with it.
He stood in front of the doorway and slowly, bravely stuck his whole face through. He could see nothing but total darkness. “Polly!” He heard only a loud, eerie silence.
He stepped back and stood there for a long moment, staring at the emptiness like an obedient puppy, waiting for his master to return. She did not.
He then thought of Lanetta Pickford. She’d stepped through and never came back. Although at first he was concerned for his wife’s safety, he couldn’t shake the potentially interesting result of this tragic event.
“What if she doesn’t come back?”
This was a very interesting thought indeed. He shook his head and felt a twinge of embarrassment at such a selfish thought. He knew he shouldn’t just assume that she wouldn't come back, but the thought did tickle his mind.
After a long while of nervously standing and waiting at the doorway, he stepped into the house and poured himself a cup of coffee. He then brought it back to the garage, sat down, and resumed waiting for Polly to return.
He wondered what he should do. Should he call the police? What would he tell them? He knew the way life worked and pictured the whole situation turning on him. He imagined telling them the truth, which of course, they wouldn’t believe. They’d arrest him for his wife’s demise and confiscate the doorway.
He decided he should just wait a while. He would give her every opportunity to step back through. He felt an uncomfortable parallel between his situation and Professor Pickford’s. There was an obvious difference displayed in the sad, almost intelligible account, written by a man who’d lost a dear love, and Patrick’s own response. He stepped a little lighter with ever hour Polly failed to return.
Patrick wasn’t a monster, he would never have wished any harm to come to her. But ever since he’d retired and was forced to spend all his time with her, he was miserable.
He knew eventually he would have to call the police. Few people can just disappear in this society without the authorities asking questions. He vowed to make the call on Tuesday morning.

(This is a work in progress.)