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The Devil’s Door

When we were small, my brother weaned me on lies and false tales.

He told me, aged six, that my parents were wicked wolves dressed as people; that they were waiting for the perfect moment to gobble us down. I tried for weeks to peel the mask off my mother’s face whenever she bent to kiss me. Once, I caught her with a sharp fingernail and opened a wound on her neck. It scarred her for months and she never bent to kiss me again.

He told me, aged eight, that each time an impure soul sneezes a fallen angel comes to them in their sleep to stuff the noxious air back into their lungs. I paced the floor, sleepless, for a whole month, holding back my coughs and splutters, waking the whole family night after night. From that day onwards, my room was locked from the outside.

But the worse tale was that of the Devil’s Door. I was eleven.

When I was hiding in the cellar one particular day when my brother’s taunts had driven me near mad I noticed a small dark patch on the wall, deep in a damp corner. It was tacky to the touch and smelled like rusted bicycle spokes. I stared at it. It seemed to transfix me. As the weeks went on, I returned to the cellar and the patch grew into an expansive black slick of stuff which rode up the cold wall. I sat, cross-legged, in front of it and lost myself in its strange, ghoulish pattern.

Over my should, on one occasion, I heard my brother’s arrival but did not turn. I hoped – however futile the hope – he would leave me in the gloom.

“Oh. You’ve found it,” he said.
Found?” I replied, not taking my eyes off the wall.
“Yes. The Devil’s Door.” He approached me; whispered deep into my ear. “And you are now his keeper.”

He explained to me that this was the very Devil’s entrance to the world, his doorway for stealing souls and trapping them in Hell; that I had found it and that I was now bound to stop him; that I’d found it just in time for he had already begun stalking out bedrooms as we slept, sizing us up.

My blood froze – I could not catch my breath: “In our bedrooms?” I cried.

“Yes! But you are his keeper! You have to keep us all safe. Hold out your hands.” My brother pushed my palms onto the wall. I felt the black ooze squelch under them. I closed my eyes. There seemed to be a physical shift, too, in the matter itself.  I heard voices cry out and the heat of a hundred eyeballs on my face.

“You have to stay here! Or we’re all damned to Hell where we’ll burn forever. Never ending pain, never ending torment.” He crept away and left me there.

And there I stayed. If anyone came near, I would screech and cry and lash out. I would bite and kick and pierce their eardrums with my din.They sent doctors. They gave up. They sent priests. They could do nothing. I never explained lest the secret roused the Devil’s temper.

My mother brought all my meals; small parcels of food which she would place in my mouth and then leave me where I was to chew them down.  The stain grew and grew. My hands were overcome by it and my eyes dared not leave its surface. I saw faces. The souls I’d failed. Those who the infernal beast had trapped before I noticed the doorway. They spoke to me. They thanked me for sealing up the Devil’s Door and hailed me as his keeper; that I was preventing the terrible fate befalling any others.

I tell you this as a preamble. I do not know – in truth – what happened to my brother. I only heard the screams of the following day. I awoke in the cellar. My arms had slipped from their vital position and I replaced them immediately. Again I heard the sound of crying, broken souls. And something spoken upstairs, through tears, about my brother’s absence; something further about a black stain in the bed where he was last seen.

Something tugged at the torn edges of my soul when I had the news confirmed. Something not entirely unwelcome, I am ashamed to say.

He never returned to us.

It’s been ten years. I am now a man. The lies of my brother ring around my head but I have forgotten his face. I sit here, still, withered but triumphant as the Devil’s keeper. My mother feeds me, as she has for so long, and my father has long since abandoned us. The palms of my hands creak and crack from the adhesive I have used to seal them to the wall. I could not risk another breach. My arms have stiffened and the blackness of the doorway has crept up them, saturating the skin there, coating and embalming the flesh. It’s vileness bulges is my veins and I feel its veil dropping over my weary eyes.

But I can never move.

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One response to “The Devil’s Door

  1. Nick East ⋅

    My favourite one so far. Well done boys!

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