Don't Open That Door

When Anaya's mother dies, she must go home to console her grieving family, except her family is not home. And her home is not as she remembered.

THUNK. I drop the phone on the carpet. I slide onto my knees; grief drowns my eyes, my cheeks, and my arm. My wife rushes to my side. She sits one hand on my shoulder and the other hand on the middle of my back. “Honey, what happened?” 

I meet the brown eyes that made me fall head over heels in love with her. “My mother. She- she’s died.” My wife pulls me into a hug, and I rest my wet face on her shoulder. “I need to go back to the house. See how everyone is doing.” 

“What?” My wife’s eyes widen with alarm. “You can’t go back there.”

I kiss the back of her hand. “I will come back.” 

She shakes her head. “I just can’t help having a bad feeling about you going back there, darling.” All the mistrust of my folks instills more alarm in the way she looks at me. My mom is my mom though. I have to go be there for my family. My mom has always supported me. 

I kiss her forehead. “It’ll be fine.” 

Her hatred for my favorite phrase sends her eyes rolling to the back of her head. She crosses her arms. “I will take care of Lacey.”

“Thank you.” 

I pack my bags and fly home the very next morning. I pay an Uber driver to take me to the suburbs- to the house of my childhood memories. I glance at the empty driveway, and then I glance at the large, gray-brick building that I always thought reminded me of a luxurious dollhouse.

I use the spare key to enter. The scent of berry air fresheners greet me at the door. My eyes settle in the darkness. I roll my suitcase to the hallway that leads to my bedroom, looking around for everyone. I know I called everyone and told them I was coming. The sound of running footsteps disturbs my thoughts. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no one. I look at the door of my bedroom, adorned with painted flowers. I smile, remembering my mom and me painting those. More running footsteps. “Hello?” Was there an animal in here? I glance towards my bedroom door, but this time the flowers are gone. The door is eerily plain. Where are the flowers? Did we ever really paint them? Whispers nip my ears, but they are coming from the door. My stomach churns. A musty smell descends on my senses though I could have sworn I just smelled the air fresheners. Maybe I should have listened to my wife and not come back. But, there was something in me that just needed to know what was on the other side of the door. As I walk forward, the voices grow in volume. I open the door. A little child with skin as gray as the door and who looks just like me smiles, revealing crooked rows of teeth. It lunges. I scream. 

Author's Note

A study at scene construction.