The doorway was shabby, and to be honest when I came home at the end of every day I hated to think that it was waiting for me. It was just a door to everyone else that stepped through it, but to me it was the gateway to another world, a world I hated, a world I feared above all else. These first few lines make me sound like I’m revealing myself as an abused wife or an unhappy husband, but I’m not, I’m in a relationship and I’m happy within it, that’s not what this story is about. This story is about what happens to me at the end of every day, what happens as I step over the threshold of what I once called my dream home, the house at the end of Kedavara Way
I guess before I start telling you about the terrors of that other world I should first of all tell you about my home. I used to walk past it everyday when I was a child. My friends used to dare me to walk up the garden path and touch it’s front door, it used to terrify me as a child so I never would, but as I grew up I wanted that house so badly, so badly it made me cry, I thought I’d never be able to call it my own. The house looked beautiful to me, it was old, I’m not sure how old, even now I can’t pin-point its actual age, I can find records going back to the 15th century but even then it was old. People in town believe the house has always been there, but that’s ridiculous isn’t it? That’s what I used to think anyway, lately though, I’ve started to believe them.
Nothing grows in the front garden, no matter how many times I tried I could never make flowers grow, experts always told me that they could find nothing wrong with the soil, I always told them it was the house, not the soil, that was stopping the flowers from growing. That isn’t to say however that the house completely repels plant life, in fact its almost completely covered in Ivy, except the windows and doors which always seemed free of it. For years I tried to stop the Ivy from growing, I tried everything but nothing ever worked. I was worried the Ivy would damage the house, but no matter what I tried the Ivy always grew back with a vengeance. The Ivy almost seems to protect the house, desperately stopping a single inch of the old brickwork from showing through, I guess the Ivy made the house like a fortress, it was completely impenetrable. So one day I just stopped trying and let nature take over, for years that’s the way things have been.
The windows are ancient, the frames are cracked and the glass is warped, so much so that no one can see in or out of the house, weirdly that doesn’t stop the light from penetrating them, the house has always been very well light actually. The light doesn’t do a lot to drive away what’s inside though, nothing does.
Like I said, to me the house is beautiful, the Ivy makes it look homely, the dry and cracked soil of the garden does nothing to damage that. Even passers by comment to me on how attractive the house looks, some of them even go to the effort of ringing the doorbell and telling me, something they say they would never normally do. I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve had call, I’ve had so many that I’m actually thinking of having an opinions box installed, just so people can tell me what they think without disturbing me. I didn’t used to mind though, I welcomed the callers, sometimes I would even give them grand tours of the house, after all I was proud of my dream home. It’s strange that as a child I was so terrified of it, it seems to frighten children, I guess children are more aware of things, after all as the years past I grew more and more scared of my home.
Since its so important to me I need to take you back to that front door, that beautiful but shabby looking front door that I dread to come home to at night. Friends of mine have always asked me why I don’t move, I’ve often wondered that, I guess I feel as though I have a duty to stay in the house, a duty to protect the outside world from ever finding out the secrets it holds. The front door though, as its so important to me I feel I should describe it to you, in full. Its made of wood and painted brown, the paint is old now and in places its peeling off, for some reason I’ve never thought to re-paint it. The door has a beautifully ornate handle and brass knocker, the brass knocker is starting to look a little worn, after all I get people calling every single day just to tell me what they think of the house. Its ironic that by doing so they are actually damaging it! Even the letter box, which I imagine is the newest addition to the door, is beautiful, its carved with impressive looking but haunting images of serpents. The door is heavy, it groans as it opens, perhaps the groan is actually the house crying out in anguish that its being disturbed.
So for the first time in years I’m actually opening the door to someone, for many years I’ve kept the door firmly closed to outsiders but for you dear reader I’m making an exception. I feel as though I owe it to the outside world to allow at least someone to enter into this house and experience what I do every single night. I need to know that old age hasn’t made me insane, I need to know that I’m not seeing things, I need to know, dear reader, that you see them too.