A Door He Didn't Recognize
By Simon Kewin
In the corner of his hallway, Doug found a small door he’d never seen before. He had lived here for twenty years; vacuumed weekly, repainted every five years. How could he not have seen it? It was oddly shaped, trapezoidal, with a sloping top, squeezed in beneath the slope of the stairs.
He turned the brass handle and it opened. It was dark inside. He imagined startled spiders scurrying away. Frowning, he stepped through.
He found himself squinting in the bright light of a wide, grass plain. The ragged edge of a great wood stretched away on one side. Sunlight glinted off something in the distance, a lake or golden rooftops, he couldn’t tell. Distant mountaintops made the purple horizon jagged. He looked backwards. There was his door. Through it he could see his flock wallpaper, the print of unnamed mountain peaks he’d bought one holiday. He could hear his telephone jangling.
When he turned back, a man sat at a desk in front of him.
‘Name?’
‘Uh, Doug.’
The man examined a piece of paper on his desk, running his pencil down it carefully.
‘Sorry, your name’s not here. You can’t come in.’
‘But there aren’t any names on it.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your paper. There are no names on it at all. It’s completely blank.’
The man studied it again, as if seeing it for the first time. He looked confused.
‘Sorry, you can’t come in,’ he repeated, as if that explained everything. ‘What would happen if we let people in who aren’t on the list?’
‘Well, what would happen?’
‘It’s unthinkable.’
‘Here,’ said Doug. He took the man’s paper and pencil and wrote a single word at the top of the page.
‘Now,’ said Doug. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Name?’
‘Doug.’
The man checked his list once more.
‘Why, yes. Yes you can. Welcome, welcome.’
Doug thanked the man and set off to walk towards the distant mountains.
- - -
Simon writes fiction and poetry. Some of it is fantasy, some of it is SF and some can’t make its mind up. His work has appeared in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies. He lives in the UK with Alison and their two daughters Eleanor and Rose. He is currently learning to play the electric guitar.
By Simon Kewin
In the corner of his hallway, Doug found a small door he’d never seen before. He had lived here for twenty years; vacuumed weekly, repainted every five years. How could he not have seen it? It was oddly shaped, trapezoidal, with a sloping top, squeezed in beneath the slope of the stairs.
He turned the brass handle and it opened. It was dark inside. He imagined startled spiders scurrying away. Frowning, he stepped through.
He found himself squinting in the bright light of a wide, grass plain. The ragged edge of a great wood stretched away on one side. Sunlight glinted off something in the distance, a lake or golden rooftops, he couldn’t tell. Distant mountaintops made the purple horizon jagged. He looked backwards. There was his door. Through it he could see his flock wallpaper, the print of unnamed mountain peaks he’d bought one holiday. He could hear his telephone jangling.
When he turned back, a man sat at a desk in front of him.
‘Name?’
‘Uh, Doug.’
The man examined a piece of paper on his desk, running his pencil down it carefully.
‘Sorry, your name’s not here. You can’t come in.’
‘But there aren’t any names on it.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your paper. There are no names on it at all. It’s completely blank.’
The man studied it again, as if seeing it for the first time. He looked confused.
‘Sorry, you can’t come in,’ he repeated, as if that explained everything. ‘What would happen if we let people in who aren’t on the list?’
‘Well, what would happen?’
‘It’s unthinkable.’
‘Here,’ said Doug. He took the man’s paper and pencil and wrote a single word at the top of the page.
‘Now,’ said Doug. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Name?’
‘Doug.’
The man checked his list once more.
‘Why, yes. Yes you can. Welcome, welcome.’
Doug thanked the man and set off to walk towards the distant mountains.
- - -
Simon writes fiction and poetry. Some of it is fantasy, some of it is SF and some can’t make its mind up. His work has appeared in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies. He lives in the UK with Alison and their two daughters Eleanor and Rose. He is currently learning to play the electric guitar.
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