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The Third Door
My doctor says my mind is going. He smiles at me in that funny way he has, and then continued. I am not to worry too much about it, he says, but I am supposed to write down what I see. But it isn’t what I see that is the problem. I live by the sea; there is a decent view of it from by bathroom, although not my bedroom. Not since the neighbours built their extension anyway. On a sunny afternoon you can see almost to France from the bathroom. You can often hear the sound of ship passing. On a foggy day, you can hear a loud booming sound, low pitched, which reminds you that there are still people alive out there, on the sea.
A hundred years ago, they say, this house used to be the residence of a famous pirate.
OK, I’ve told you what I can see. But that isn’t the problem. The kind doctor never could understand that. It isn’t what I can see, but what I can feel. The room I am in is cold. If I take a step out of the room, outside the house, the temperature goes up to the point I am sweating. But inside the room, it is cold. I feel anxious, too, scared – a creepy feeling, like you are being watched. I can’t see anything, you see, and I don’t hear anything, but there is always the feeling that something is getting ready to eat you.
My husband says it is foolishness. My Doctor says take these pills, and they will make me better, and I say... this is real. I started feeling this a year ago. It was when I read the old newspaper, stuffed under the floorboards. There was something strange wrapped in it, a key that is old and heavy, made of rusting iron. But the content of the newspaper is what started it. I am pretty sure of that.
You see, it was a story of five people that were murdered, right here, right in the house. The police were baffled. The door was locked, locked from the inside, but whoever killed them got in and out. Got clean away. I checked on the internet a few days latter, and discovered that no one had ever been caught.
The key was the one that used to open the door. I am sure of that.
All this happened thirty years ago. Even if it was related to the murderer, my husband assures me that there is no chance. Not the remotest. Not that it can ever happen again.
But I can feel the coldness, growing, slowly, stronger and stronger, I feel like something is coming to get me. But no one else can feel that. No one else understands what I am feeling right now. They think it is some mania, some mental problem, maybe an infection.
Sometimes at night, I lie asleep, watching the door.
The doctor says writing this will help me, but I am not sure he is right. What if they decide I am mad? What if they use this to take me away, put me somewhere nice and safe and warm, shoot me full of drugs, and heal me? But if I don’t write this, maybe that will be all the kind man requires, requires before he helps me.
Sometimes, although I don’t see anything, some third sense makes me feel like something is behind the door. Something evil. Something evil behind the door, reaching for the handle.
You know, there was no reason for anyone to murder that family. Whoever did it was evil, but my husband just shakes his head. He doesn’t understand what I am feeling. He thinks that it will just go away. So I lie there, too afraid to take the sleeping pills the good doctor offers me. So afraid. Of whatever is behind that door.
It’s one o’clock now. My husband is sleeping in the next room along. I can hear his rhythmical snoring, his comforting snorting, and I am writing this by the bedside light. Sometimes, when I hear the snoring the fear goes away for a little time. Sometimes I feel like it is all in my mind, that nothing is behind the door.
I’m laying in bed, now, watching the door. Something strange is happening. I can see the door handle turning, the door sliding open, just a fraction. The door is opening -