InnerLand/The Door ............... Molly Writes

INNERLAND/The Door

From Chapter 1

"Odd."
Marc stared at the small wooden door panel and the elaborate doorknob facing him. "I've lived in this house my whole life and I've never before noticed a doorway in this wall."

A far away insistent jingle of a telephone roused Marc somewhat from his reverie. "I'm losin' it," Marc muttered to himself. The clanging telephone was ignored. "Good grief. Get a grip. This is just a door. There's so much junk piled up here," a bemused chuckle escaped his lips as the adolescent continued gazing at the portal, "no wonder I hadn't seen it before! That's it, of course."

Chuckling at himself, Marc grinned again. Surveying the attic in one last long, lazy, sweeping glance, he shook his head. Good Grief. There were remnants from his own childhood intermingled with those of his parents, his grandparents, aunts, uncles, and it appeared, without a doubt anyone, relative, or not, who needed a place to store their outdated 'stuff'.

"I tell you." He said softly, aloud, to no one at all. "It is pretty obvious this family does not throw away ANYTHING.”

Adds a whole new meaning to the word packrat, Marc mused.

Along the wall opposite the 'mystery' doorway, preserved inside their tissue paper wrappings, generations of outgrown or cast aside, out dated clothing now lay decaying. On a small, hand carved table there in the corner, noticeable because they lay alone on the surface, were the last remaining heirlooms of ancestors about whom Marc knew very little. Despite all the years, how bright the tiny thimble shone. Beside it lay a heavy awl and needle still laced with a thin shard of leather.

Marc knew the story by heart. He had been told the tale by his father, who had in turn learned it from his own parent. It had happened so very long ago that not one of them, not Dad or Grandpa were really certain when the old family lore had begun.

Marc did know those long ago grandparents had been gone, lost for generations. No one knew how, why, or exactly when, the two had just disappeared. It was proved, by a careful research of old documents and the like, that sometime in the late 1600s or early 1700s the pair had settled here in this part of Connecticut.

The couple had produced a sizeable family, the grouping of worn stones in the old cemetery bore out that fact. It was they who had first built the original portion of this house.

But, after that, who knows? Grandpa thought it was most likely the ancestors along with their youngest dauht must have perished on one of the many early emigration routes leading to another settlement further to the south or to the west. So many families lost touch with one another in those days.

This huge, jumbled, old chamber had served the house's inhabitants as playhouse, storage and thinking room for well over two centuries. Standing here within the attic walls Marc felt again the secure sense of kindred continuity and comfort that he had always experienced whenever he spent time within in this chamber.

Reaching a tentative finger toward the door knob Marc smiled again. In the very center of this larger, heavier version of the device adorning his old nursery door, Marc found himself gazing at a most serious, bespectacled owl.

Chuckling aloud at the sight of it Marc’s gaze fell upon the bright eyes of a squirrel peeking over one edge of the disc. Just the tip of a fluffy tail was visible as a skunk disappeared over another. A winged horse stood beside a bewhiskered hare. Perched on the dainty equine's back was a plump, sleepy eyed gopher. A perky, rakish chipmunk draped over HIS shoulder.

Below the knob itself was a large, old fashioned keyhole. This opening was complete with an ornate, oversized key.

"Intriguing." Marc hurried to remove the instrument from it's slot. Examining the gadget, Marc found that the passe-partout also had a similar owl depicted on it.

"Or maybe this is the same owl," the young man muttered half aloud as he turned the surprisingly heavy key over and over in his hand. "Why on earth would anyone put a doorway here on the outer wall side?" he pondered. "Good Grief."

Marc's quiet mutterings went unanswered. He stared hard at the door, the wall and especially at the key.
“There is no balcony on this side of the house,” muttered Marc. “This doorway simply cannot possibly open into anything at all."

Marc replaced the key within it's slot. Turning it his eyes widened.

"Wha...?" Marc gasped, "why, this can't be!"

Hinges creaking from disuse, the door swung slowly open revealing a smallish, murky, rather dusty landing. Marc was surprised to find there were stairs angling down and away from the platform. Their descent disappeared into obscurity.

Puzzled now, Marc leaned forward to peer into the gloom. Staring into the murk he tried to see to the bottom of the stairwell and found he could not.

"I really don't believe this. Where on earth can these steps lead?" Baffled, Marc stepped back, away from the yawning door way. I never heard grandpa or dad talk about such a stairwell up here."

Dashing toward the outer wall Marc soon stood peering through the small paned window placed there in the wall beside the door. The puzzled young man unlatched the sash and leaned far out the opening.

"I was right," he mumbled. "There is nothing out here at all but a straight, flat wall. WHEREVER do those stairs treads, that passageway, fit then?"