Other Side of the Door, The

Sarah's eyes flicked open and darted around the gloomy room. She
felt homesick and alien in her new home - her room was unfamiliar,
almost unfriendly. She wondered what had woken her up in the middle of
the night - she normally slept solidly until morning. As her eyes grew
accustomed to the dark, she saw the cold, empty walls surrounding her -
the room was like an empty body waiting to be filled with the thoughts
and character of a living soul. She hated moving house - the last time
she underwent such a traumatic experience was seven years before, when
she was six. She could remember it all quite vividly, and also that
empty feeling she had on the first night in her new home. Surely it
wasn't as bad as this? She didn't really share her parents' taste in
houses - they liked these cold, rambling halls. "It's got so much
character!" exclaimed her mother when they were looking around.
Bleurgh!
She snuggled down under the blankets - it was so cold in this room. So
cold she might even be able to see her breath. She tried it.
And heard a faint knocking sound, so faint it could even have been her
imagination. Could that have woken her up? The sound came again, just a
little tapping, as if a mouse was knocking on the door. Sarah sat up in
bed, and shivered involuntarily. So cold! She glanced around the room,
at the oak door leading onto the landing, and past a bare expanse of
emotionless wall, to the other door.
The other door?
There was no other door! But there it was, black and ominous against
the contrasting white, but also somehow faint, shimmering. The tapping
sound started up again, so relentless, persistent. Sarah suddenly felt
a wave of desperate fear overcome her, and she almost screamed as its
deathly cold grip tightened around her. She could hear something else
now, even softer than the knocking sound, like a gentle wind whispering
through golden leaves, a pleading voice, repeating endlessly
Help....help....
The room blurred, images overlapped, and the haunting sounds faded
gradually. Sarah felt as though she was floating, suspended on that
whispering voice, that beckoning, imploring voice.
Then, all was dark.
The morning dawned with a pale, sickly light that failed to penetrate
the dusty corners of this ancient house. The events of the previous
night had receded to the back of Sarah's mind, like a dorment illness,
always worrying and niggling deep in one's consciousness.
Breakfast in that vast, stone kitchen was a silent affair. Finally the
voice of Sarah's father cut through the stillness. Sarah jumped.
"How was your first night here then, love?"
"Alright. I was a bit cold."
She munched into a slice of toast. End of conversation?
"Yeah, we need to get that heating sorted out fairly soon."
That whispering voice echoed in her mind, suddenly amplified.
"Dad?"
"Yep?"
"Did you.....uh...hear anything last night? Like mice or
something?"
"Can's say I did. It's an old place, though. Must be loads of mice
around."
Mother spoke up. "What else can you expect? Sarah, you're very lucky
that we can afford to live in such a lovely house. It hasn't been lived
in for years - we told you there would be mice."
"I know." Sarah stood up, leaving her toast half-eaten. "I'm going to
have a look 'round. I still don't know all the rooms in this
place."
She clambered up the steep, rickety flight of wooden steps onto the
landing. It was more of a gallery than a landing, rotten bannisters on
one side, looking down into the hall, and a row of doors on the other.
Sarah walked into her room, and felt that same numbing chill again that
was so different from the rest of the house. Where there had been a
door in her semi-conscious experience the previous night, there was now
only bare, whitewashed wall. She thumped on the wall, and a hollow,
resonant sound resulted. Sarah shuddered, and not just from the
cold.
Steve Nicholls, Sarah's father, surveyed the vast array of tools and
boxes scattered over the garage floor, and scratched his dwindling
hair. Moving was such a challenge - so much to sort out and organise.
Of course it was a trauma, anyone knows that, but he gained a
considerable amount of satisfaction from putting everything into the
right place, and surveying his work, knowing that he had put so much
effort into it. Steve was in his late forties, dark-brown hair still
clinging in wisps to the side of his head, but too thin on top for his
liking. His face was flushed with healthy colour, and his eyes bright
and alive. He moved over to a pile of boxes stacked in one corner, and
was about to start sorting them out when his daughter stole quietly in.
Her face was downcast and sad, her arms hung by her sides, her
shoulders were slumped. Sarah was a damn enigma. She was so different
from her mother and father. Her hair was long and dark-blonde flowing
down to her shoulders, her face pale-skinned, her eyes a brilliant
blue. She was always so melancholy, wrapped up in her own thoughts,
impossible to penetrate. After thirteen years, he still didn't know his
own daughter well at all! She hadn't taken to the house yet, Steve
knew, but given time. Maybe. He couldn't tell.
"Dad." Her voice was troubled, hesitant.
"Come to give me a hand, have you?" Steve smiled.
It was not returned. "I...I don't think I like this place very
much."
There. It was out.
"Come on, we've only been here a day! Give it time. You'll get to like
it."
"I don't know. It's so cold, so...empty. It's not that we haven't
decorated it or anything, it's.....who lived here last?"
"I don't think it's been lived in for about fifty years. I'm not
sure."
"How old is it? A thousand years?"
Steve chuckled, but didn't make a very good job of it. "Not that old!
I think it dates back to the sixteenth century, or around there."
Sarah hesitated. "Do you reckon it's got...you know...secret passages
and...hidden rooms?"
"Why do you say that?"
She shrugged. "Forget it. I...I just wondered."
Then, she was gone as quietly as she arrived.
Steve shook his head sadly. He would never understand her.
Never.

"Sarah!" The voice of her mother rose loud and clear from downstairs.
Sarah was sitting on her bed, staring at that blank expanse of wall,
almost in a trance. The voice jarred unpleasantly on her senses.
She walked out onto the gallery, and looked down at her mother in the
gloom of the hall below.
"I wish you'd help us. There's so much to do! I want you to go down to
the village shop and buy a few things. Hang on, I'll write a
list."
Sarah brightened up a little, and ran down the stairs. The village!
She's only been through it in the car - she had all day to have a look
around.
"I'd love to! What do you want?"
"Give me a chance! Make sure you don't forget any of this, otherwise
you can forget dinner tonight."
Sarah grabbed the list, and burst out of the house into the morning
sunshine. A sweet breeze ruffled her hair, and she took great gulps of
the heavenly essence. Free! Away from the clammy, monolithic interior
of the house, away from her cold, fearful room. She looked back at the
grey, moss-covered walls, and wished that she would never have to go
inside there agin, but knew deep in her heart that she would be
sleeping there again tonight, and she would see that ghostly door and
hear that whispering, pleading voice.
She hurried away.
The village of Shepney was little more than a hamlet, a cluster of
tiny Tudor-style cottages surrounding the flint church and the village
shop, that catered for every need. Sarah didn't think she had seen
anything more beautiful in her entire life than that village - bright,
cheerful, surrounded by lush meadows and rolling hills, almost smiling
by itself.
A bell rang as she pushed open the door to the shop, and immediately a
kindly-looking old man appeared behind the counter, his wrinkled face
set in a permanent smile, eyes bright and bubbly.
"Good morning to you!" His voice not more have epitomized the morning,
warm, bright and cheerful.
"Good morning. We've just moved in and my mum wants..."
"Just moved in? whereabouts?"
"The big grey house up the hill."
"Oh, Shepney Manor! Lovely old house." There was something ingenuine
about the way he said that, a slight hint of deceit in his voice.
"Yeah, it's alright."
Silence.
"So, what's your name then?"
"Sarah. Sarah Nicholls."
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Fred Garcit. I own this store."
He offered his hand, and Sarah shook it. His grip was firm, but
something flickered in his eyes. The fact that Sarah lived in Shepney
Manor had disturbed him, and his manner had become more cautious, more
detached.
On the way back, Sarah passed through the cottages, kept immaculately,
gardens awash with many colours, almost burning in the sun. Suddenly
she felt uncomfortable, felt something look into her, deep into her,
into her very soul.
She turned towards one of the houses, and saw an ancient face peering
through the window, and incredibly old woman, skin drawn tight over the
bone, eyes sunk deep in the sockets. But the eyes! So alive, so young,
so...knowing.
A withered hand beckoned slowly, and Sarah felt compelled to change
her course and make for the door. It opened as soon as she reached it,
and Sarah walked into the gloomy interior, an interior that smelled of
age-old dust, of pungent herbs, of decay.....all at the same
time.
A cracked, hoarse voice sounded faintly in the musty house.
"Welcome, Sarah. Please come in."
Sarah turned to her left, through a door, and into a small room in
which burned a fire, emitting a sweet, sickly odour. The old woman was
seated in an ancient armchair, sunk into it, almost part of it. Those
keen eyes blazed at Sarah fiercely. The room was unbearably hot.
"Sit down." A broomstick of an arm gestured towards an empty armchair
next to the fire. Sarah sat, and a cloud of dust billowed up, mixing
with the smoke.
"You are a troubled young girl, Sarah. Unhappy, afraid, alone."
Sarah tried to speak, but only a muffled sob escaped her lips.
"You are very gifted, Sarah. You have great power. You have an insight
into the other world, child, on the other side of the door."
"How.....how do you know my name?" The fumes had begun to make her
feel faint, she was floating on a breeze like when she had heard that
whispering voice.
"You must listen, child." The old woman's voice was distant now, and
fading.
"A great evil has been committed, hundreds of years ago. It must be
corrected. The evil in your house, Sarah. The door must be opened. You
must open....must....open..."

Sarah's eyes flicked open. It was dark. It was cold. Oh God, she was
back at home, back in her room,
The door.....
What had happened? The old woman's words still echoed in her mind. The
door must be opened. Had she fainted? She certainly didn't remember
getting home. She felt so desperately afraid and alone.
Slowly, hesitantly, she tracked her eyes across the walls, across
those skeletal walls, until she reached the spot where the ghostly door
had been, and saw only more wall, no different from the rest.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and sank back into the bed, breathing
heavily. She must have dreamed about going down to the village, and
meeting the withered old crone.
The other side of the door.....
But those words still echoed so strongly in her mind, too strongly for
comfort. Something tapped faintly in the dark, and the room was
suddenly frosty cold, as if some arcane presence had slithered in,
bringing the weather from whatever godforsaken place it came from.
Sarah fumbled for the light switch by her bed, and the room was
suddenly washed in a greenish, unearthly light. Her shadow hung twisted
and crouched on the wall, and the door was now there, so simple - just
a plain, wooden door that led to...hell? The door almost beckoned, and
Sarah realised with a fascinated horror that the rusty doorknob was
being rapidly turned, first one way, then the other, with an awful
rattling sound like the shaking of bones.
The cracked, gurgling voice of the old woman sounded loud and clear in
the chilly room. Sarah turned towards the window, and barely stifled a
scream. Her ancient face was pressed hard against the glass, mad eyes
burning with a red fury, shrivelled lips curled back in a grimace. But
the window was two stories up!
"The door, Sarah. Open the door! Release that poor, tortured soul that
has been trapped for hundreds of years. Open it!"
Sarah climbed dreamily out of bed and lurched towards the door, the
source of the supernatural light that billowed around the room like a
swirling mist.
She stood before it, and was struck by a blast of intense cold that
brought with it a stench of age and decay. She gasped with shock, but
fought hard against the deathly wind until she clasped the handle
firmly. It was soft and malleable, as if made of wax, and, clamping her
eyes shut, she slowly pulled the door open.
The green fog enveloped her and filled her nostrils with a smell she
had never known, a sweet yet bitter smell, pleasant but also
foul.
Images shifted and blurred, and she was lost in a kaleidoscope of
colour that eventually settled and came to rest.
It was dark, and the room was incredibly small, little more than a
cupboard. Cramped in one corner was a priest, old and feeble, his face
ravaged with wrinkles, twisted with fear. Wisps of wild hair clung to
his scalp, and a thin, straggly beard sprouted from his quivering chin.
His face was pressed tight on one of the walls, and Sarah realised that
he was peering through a tiny chink, revealing a limited view into the
room beyond. She could see through the eye of this terrified man, and
she realised with dawning horror that the room in question was her own,
but furnished with ancient chairs, the walls hung with ornate
tapestries.
Three figures stood in the room, one a short, plump woman dressed in a
tattered brown dress, and two men, both clasping swords, their scarred
faces set in expressions of satisfaction and malicious intent.
The woman turned, and pointed a shaky finger towards the tiny hide.
Her face, although many years younger, was that of the old woman, those
bright, alert eyes burning with determination. The two men nodded, and
ran towards the dark hole. The old priest's eyes grew wide in utter
terror, and he pressed himself up against the far wall. Light suddenly
flooded into the hole, illuminating the black, dismal walls and shining
straight onto the face of the old priest, who had closed his eyes and
was silently mumbling. The two men smiled in delight, and one took a
step forward and raised his sword, ready to plunge it into the priest's
chest. But the other man gripped his shoulder, shaking his head.
Sarah looked on, fascinated. The scenes before her were played out in
complete silence, the lips moving, but no sound emerging. But in the
background, almost inside her own mind, was that terrible whispering,
rising and falling in volume, endlessly pleading. One of the men
produced a gnarled wooden club and swung it at the priest, catching him
full on the skull. The force of the blow sent his feeble frame crashing
back against the wall and landing in a crumpled heap at its base. The
'old' woman, a wide grin spreading over her features, held out her
hand, and in it were placed several gold coins that glinted
malignantly. She clasped her hand tight around them and laughed
hideously.
The images shifted and blurred, and now there were more people in the
room. The old man was moaning, his head swaying from side to side,
blood trickling down his face. A wall was gradually being built up,
shutting him in that small, cramped, dark room. This then was his
punishment for adhering to the faith he chose - to die walled-up alive
in this hole, to die a slow, evil death. What had previously been his
hiding-place had become his prison, forever.
Unless you can repair the evil that was done long ago
Sarah now understood what was on the other side of the door, and what
she had to do. The old woman had said that she was gifted, and had
great power. Her soul, riddled with guilt at the evil she had done by
betraying the catholic priest had taken advantage of the receptiveness
of Sarah's mind to undo her wrong. That poor, lost soul, trapped in the
darkness for hundreds of years, must now be released.
Morning dawned, and Sarah turned her head to one side on the pillow,
to meet the disapproving eyes of her mother.
"So, you've decided to wake up at last, have you? Who do you think you
are, making us so worried?"
"How come....what..."
"Mr Garcit, the shop-owner, found you. You'd fainted or something.
Inside some house that no one lives in anymore. He saw you staring at
it, then you walked in and never came out. We've already got a doctor
in."
"Mum, I'm fine! I know why I don't like this place now. And I know
what to do about it."
"Stop talking nonsense and lie down!"
"I'm not talking nonsense. Listen, there's someone buried in that
wall."
She pointed towards the area of wall where the ghostly door had
been.
"The doctor said you might have concussion. Straight as we get here,
and you're causing trouble. The villagers now think you're mad, and I
do too. You're not damn well leaving this house again for a long
time!"
Sarah sighed, and lay back on the pillow, fighting back the tears that
had begun to well up in her eyes.
"Mum, please. Listen to me. I had a really long dream and....do you
remember when the fortune-teller at the fair told me that..."
"That you had strong psychic ability? That's rubbish!"
Sarah could remember that hot, busy day and the small,
strongly-scented tent where the gypsy's powerful eyes had burned into
her's, and that strongly-accented voice had told her about her mind.
Just as the old woman had.
Her mother stood up and strode out of the room, slamming the door shut
behind her. A lonely, tortured voice cried out to her in her mind, and
she felt utterly helpless. She had read of what happened to catholic
priests in the sixteenth century. Persecuted for their beliefs, they
had been hidden by sympathetic folk in specially-made 'priest-holes'.
The old woman, possibly a maid of some sort, had betrayed the priest
for a price, and he was bricked up alive in his own hiding-place, to
die a slow, lingering death. The woman must have been racked with guilt
which lasted beyond the grave, and, due to Sarah's power, had been able
to contact her to undo the wrong she had done, to relieve her of that
endless, tormenting guilt.
Sarah now knew what was on the other side of the door, but she had to
open it to release that poor, innocent soul.
You have great power.
Then, Sarah knew what had to be done.

Steve Nicholls, Sarah's father, relaxed at the kitchen table, sipping
a cup of coffee. Most of the unpacking was done, but he needed a rest
before he could continue. His face was flushed, and he was panting
hoarsely. His wife burst into the room, frowning deeply, and obviously
in a rage.
"Damn her! She's more trouble than she's bloody worth! Who does she
think she is, lying in bed and telling her little tales? I've had
enough! I think we should send her away, boarding school or something.
She's wrong in the head. My own daughter!"
"What's happened now? She...."
Jagged pain ripped through Steve's head and he screamed in agony, the
coffee cup slamming to the ground, shattering into tiny fragments. He
closed his eyes, and all was green, billowing green mist, swirling,
swirling...
"Steve! Steve, what's the matter?!"
Sarah's voice, echoing, echoing....the door, dad. Open the
door..."
"Steve!"
Green mist swirling, parting, and a door, a closed door, faint and
shimmering through the swirling mist. Open the door...open..."
"Steve!"
Steve blinked, and the mist suddenly disappeared.
"Steve?"
"Shutup!" He turned, and strode determinedly towards the garage.
"Where are you going?"
Open the door.....
"I...I've got to do something. Open the door."
"What the hell are you talking about?! You're as bad as her!"
Steve hauled up a huge sledgehammer. With considerable effort, he
dragged it through the kitchen and up the stairs, occasionally pausing
to regain his breath and to mop his brow. "Must...open the door."
"Steve!" Mrs Nicholls' shrill voice tore up the stairs after him. "Put
that bloody thing down now! You've gone mad! Like her!"
An incredible strength possessed him as he lurched into Sarah's
bedroom and made straight for the section of wall that seemed to pull
him on, allure him.
Sarah was out of bed, her eyes tightly closed, deep concentration
creasing her face. The sledgehammer swung and thudded into the wall,
denting it and sending plaster and dust whirling to the floor. Mrs
Nicholls stood in the doorway, gasping in horror. She lunged out
towards her husband, whose face was that of a crazed madman. Sarah
turned and smiled at her mother. An invisible force rammed into her,
sending her hurtling onto the landing, and crashing into the flimsy
bannisters. Rotten with age, they snapped easily under her weight, and
she continued backwards and down with a sickening thud into the hall
below.
Something flickered in Sarah's eyes, a brief expression of doubt
clouded her face, but it was soon forgotten as the sledgehammer swung
again. A web of cracks spread over the wall and shoddy bricks showing
through, crumbling and rotten with age.
The next blow cracked the wall wide open, and Steve was bowled back by
a stench of decay, of age-old corruption that had been shut in the
confined space for hundreds of years. The final blow smashed what was
left of the wall to pieces, and light flooded into that space that had
been dark for so long.
Steve screamed as he stared into the empty sockets of an ancient,
cracked skull, leering out of the darkness, fleshless jaws hung open in
a permanent expression of terror. The skull rested, tipped to one side,
on top of a pile of dusty bones, blackened with age, crumbling and
gnarled.
Sarah snapped out of her trance and stifled a scream as the putrid
gases burst into the open, almost as solid as a dragon's head, eyes
wildly glowing, hellish breath erupting from its tainted mouth. Sarah
felt a light breeze ruffle her hair after the initial blast, but this
was chilling cold, and she shuddered and ran out of the bedroom and
down those rickety stairs, failing to notice the shattered bannisters
or the crumpled form on the hall floor, vaguely wondering where her
mother had got to.
The fresh scents of nature assailed her nostrils as she burst into the
open, delicious scents of flowers, grass and leaves. She stood still,
and stared up at the blue sky, flecked with ruffles of thin cloud,
speeding eagerly through the ether. Just like that day (was it only
yesterday?) when she went down to the village, she breathed in the
fresh, untainted air, and sighed. As the breeze wound its way through
the trees, she could almost hear a voice, moving with it.
Thankyou.....thankyou...Sarah felt a great weight lift from her, and
she gloried in the open expanse around her. Just as she felt free, so
too must the priest's spirit, away from its cramped, cell-like
tomb.
Upstairs, in Sarah's bedroom, Steve Nicholls fell back, terrified,
dropping the sledgehammer to the floor with an echoing thud. The bones
had begun moving, rattling and clanking together like a grisly
orchestra. Evil red light flickered in the eye sockets that had been
empty for so long, flesh began creeping over the ancient bone, and
black lips formed over the gaping jaws. Then, in an insane parody of
human life, the cracked, distant voice of an old hag struggled out of
that unholy mouth, striking Steve's heart with terror
"Free.....at last....free." The face turned, and red fire burned deep
into Steve's eyes, utterly evil fire.

Downstairs, Sarah walked slowly back into the hall, no longer fearing
that dark house. She saw her mother, standing motionless, staring
straight ahead, skin pale and lifeless. She rushed forward, and flung
her arms around her neck, not heeding the cold, clammy feel of the
skin.
"I've done it, mum. I wasn't making it up. I've freed him. Do you
believe me now?"
"Yes, Sarah." The voice was flat, emotionless.
Pallid eyelids flicked up, and red light burned from her glazed eyes.
A grimace spread over the corpse-like features.
"I believe you."