The Lost Door (21 page)

“Why’s that?”

William shrugged. “Just is. The idea of Caroline’s Cottage, while unlikely, makes more sense.”

“Ca—Caroline’s Cottage?” He tripped over the word.

William looked over with mild shock. “You’ve never heard of it?”

The way he was being looked at made him feel like he’d grown a third eye.

“No. What is it?”

“I heard some older boys talking about it at school.” William glanced to Elliott and said, “Have you heard of it?”

“Just stories,” Elliott responded.

Curiosity was getting the better of Willem. “What is it?” he asked again.

“Well, the story goes that there once was a couple who had a farm house—not sure why they call it a cottage when it’s a farm house. Had a well and everything. Anyway, one night the husband went off and disappeared. For three weeks they looked for him until they found his body in the woods. He was naked and gutted.” He emphasized this last part by speaking slowly and succinctly. “The lady—Caroline was her name if you hadn’t already figured that out—was devastated by what happened to her husband and locked herself in her house. Over time she convinced herself that the body that had been found wasn’t her husband, and that he would return one day. She never left, never even came outside, just sat by the window… watching.

“I guess a local woman’s group brought her food and stuff so that she wouldn’t starve. Well, one day one of those ladies came to visit Caroline only to find her and the house gone.”

“Gone? Like burned down?”

“No.
Gone.
As in not a trace of it anywhere.”

“But how is that even possible?”

“Beats me, but it gets weirder. They say that if you walk in the woods at night you might stumble upon the house, a single candle burning in the window next to Caroline, who still waits for her husband to return. It is always moving, never appearing in the same place twice, and if you try to approach, it moves away.”

“Come on,” Willem said credulously. “A house that moves?”

“That’s what they say—that if you approach it it always stays out of reach.”

Willem turned to Elliott. “That can’t be true,” he said with a hint of nervousness. “Can it?”

“That’s pretty much how I heard the story, though I have heard that on rare occasions the house doesn’t move. Sometimes a person can approach, but if they do—and if they enter the house—they are never seen again.”

Willem and William were staring at him, awe on their faces. “Seriously?” said William. “Cool!” A big smile came to his lips and he looked at Willem. “That would be so neat to see!”

Willem shook off the story. “Hold on. How is any of that even possible? A ghost house?”

“Why not?” William said. “Ghosts exist. It’s been proven.”

“No way would I go near a place like that.”

“I think it would be exciting to see. Exciting and
scary.
When I’m older I’m going to go look for it.”

“Let me know how that goes.” Willem looked at Elliott and asked, “Ready?”

“If you are.”

“Good luck with the fishing.”

“Thanks!” Then: “You know… I think I’m going to try and catch a bass today, only mine will be fifteen inches.”

“If you do, keep it. I want to see.”

Willem and Elliott crossed the bridge then descended the embankment, following a small worn dirt path down to the creek edge. William asked, “Where you going?”

Willem looked up. “Just along the creek.”

“To where?”

Willem pointed in the direction they were headed. “That way. See you at school.”

He hated to admit that that stupid story made him nervous. When they were out of earshot of William, Willem asked, “Do you believe it?”

“Caroline’s Cottage? No. It’s just a ghost story. It’s not real, just told to scare kids. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Willem, not believing it. Already his mind was swirling with images of his father stumbling through the woods after his accident, getting lost, and coming across the farm house. Had he followed it looking for help? Maybe he was one of the few that actually managed to get to the house and enter it. That would explain why his body had never been found. He was now a guest of Caroline, never to be seen again.

Before long they were at the willow tree. Elliott led the way, spreading the hanging stalks and entering. They went from sun to shade, the temperature dropping noticeably.

The willow tree sang to them, its tiny leaves rustling in the breeze. It was relaxing, hypnotic, comforting. “What did you want to show me?” Willem asked.

Elliott looked at him and smiled. “This,” he said. He crouched and moved rocks out of the way. “I found this a couple years ago and thought it would make a swell hiding place, but at the time I had nothing to hide. Now…” He held up the flask. “Mom doesn’t want this stuff in the house—can’t say I blame her—but some of it I wanted to keep, and then I remembered this place.”

He moved a final rock revealing a hole at its base. Elliott reached in and pulled out a tin box with a keyhole. It had an intricate design on it, a pattern that resembled vine leaves that wove in circles.

“Here,” Elliott said and passed it to Willem, dug into his pocket, handed him a small ornate key.

(The key! a distant voice cried.)

“Open it.”

Willem did as asked, the key turning smoothly. The lid opened to reveal their father’s worn pocket watch.

“What is this?”

“Our buried treasure,” Elliott replied. “This is our secret stash. Anything you want to keep hidden put in here. It’s better to keep this stuff than to toss it and regret it later.” Elliott handed Willem the flask. “Go on.”

He set the box down onto the mossy ground and took the flask. He fought the urge to throw it into the creek as hard as he could.

He ran his thumb over
Amor Meus.
One day he’d have to find out what it meant.

Willem placed the flask in the box, closed it, the clasp latched too loudly to his ear, echoing. He locked it and returned the key to Elliott then handed him the box.

Elliott took it and placed it back in the hole. Willem guessed that if they didn’t have a body to bury then burying some of their fathers stuff was the next best thing. He watched as his older brother replaced the rocks and sticks.

“How do you know this stuff will stay safe here, that someone won’t find it?”

He stopped a moment and looked up at the tree. “Can’t you feel it?”

Willem looked around trying to grasp what his brother was talking about. Elliott looked over his shoulder and must have seen Willem’s confusion.

“There’s something special about this place,” he continued, patting the trunk of the tree. “She doesn’t give up her secrets, and this box… it is a secret, Willem.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so,” Elliott said. “A very special one.”

* * *

An upbeat instrumental rendition of
Deck the Halls
played on the portable radio David had set up on the nightstand next to Lilly. Through its tinny speaker the trumpets blared accompanied by a piano, trombone, and percussion. David stroked Lilly’s arm knowing this was her favorite Christmas song, singing alone to his unconscious wife.

It was Christmas Eve and snow was falling in River Bend. Out the window flakes drifted lazily into oblivion. David was chilled just looking at it. The last few days hadn’t gotten above twenty-degrees, and he wasn’t looking forward to going back outside when visiting hours were over, even less enthused about going home to his cold bed alone. He missed Lilly, and he wanted her back. Her smile, her laugh, her warmth. Was that too much to ask?

In celebration of the holiday he’d brought in a small artificial Christmas tree to decorate the room in some holiday spirit. He’d put her favorite ornament on top of the tree, dressed it in colorful lights, and positioned it on the nightstand the radio played from. It was the best he could do short of bringing her home. Next year, he kept telling himself, they’d celebrate Christmas properly.

David stood, leaned over and kissed his wife’s forehead. “Until tomorrow sweetie.” He caressed her cheek and, for a moment, thought the corner of her lip curled as if trying to smile. When it didn’t his heart sank.

The hallway was desolate, most people having abandoned their loved ones for the evening. One lone nurse sat at her station reading a newspaper. “Got the short stick?” he asked trying to sound upbeat and pleasant. She looked up with a hint of annoyance.

“No time off for good behavior it seems,” she replied. She pushed a blond strand of hair behind her ear.

“How late are you stuck here?”

“Eleven. Two more hours.”

“I left a radio on in my wife’s room. I was hoping it could stay on, at least for a while longer.”

“Sure,” she said with a nod. “I’ll leave it until I’m off.”

“I appreciate it. Merry Christmas.”

“You too,” she replied, and went back to her paper.

David looked down and saw he was squeezing the brim of his hat in his fists, knuckles white.

You too,
she’d said. How was he supposed to enjoy Christmas with his wife stuck in this place? Come back to me, Lilly. Please! He put on a brave face for no one in particular and walked along the tiled hallway, his footsteps echoing louder than usual.

“David?” Abigail was leaving her husband’s room dressed for the weather. “You headed out?”

“Yes.” They walked side-by-side toward the void awaiting them outside. “How’s he doing? Anything?”

“Nothing.”

He understood how she felt. The loneliness was palpable as the days stretched into weeks then months. Unless you’d gone through it, it was hard to imagine the loss one felt. That’s how the two of them had become friends. They could relate and in that be supportive.

Abby, please,
she’d told him after spending a few days together.
My mother was the only one to call me Abigail, and that was when I’d done something wrong.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to call her by such an informal name. It seemed wrong somehow.

“I know it’s not how one should spend Christmas,” he continued, “but I’m headed out for a drink. Not really in the Christmas spirit if you know what I mean.”

“A drink sounds good,” Abigail said, putting on her gloves. “Would you like some company? I really don’t feel like going home to an empty house again, especially today of all days.”

He’d planned to sit at the bar, get properly drunk, and hope—like he’d done so many times before—that this was all a bad dream. “Not at all. The company would be nice. But, just so you know, Loafers is not a classy place.”

She feigned shock. “With a name like Loafers? You lie.” He smiled, almost laughed. “I’ll follow you.” she said.

They walked from the hospital to the parking lot. Snow continued to descend joining the half inch already there. With each step the powdered snow crunched beneath, their footprints joining several half covered ones. David saw Abigail to her car, held the door for her, then went to his own. He led her out of the parking lot and down the road, taking it slow because of the slippery conditions. Last thing he wanted was for her to join their loved ones in the hospital.

There was almost no traffic out, most people now warm with their families in the shelter of their homes. Some would be opening gifts, others drinking eggnog or punch, parties, roaring fires, all the things that made this night so special, a night he thought he’d be spending alone. Now he had Abigail’s company for the time being, and the loneliness he knew that awaited him had been postponed temporarily.

Loafer’s was a corner bar that sat on the outskirts of town. Only two snow covered cars were parked in the lot. Men who worked at the lumber mill were the main patrons of the bar as it was the closest place to get a drink after a long work day, but on a night like tonight it was limited to the bartender and bachelors.

The room wasn’t particularly spacious, but it was long. The bar hugged the right side with tables spaced in the middle of the main room. A pool table was at the back along with two dartboards. It was dimly lit, the wood finish darkening it further. David escorted Abigail to a table and pulled the chair out for her.

“I think I’d prefer the bar,” she said. Abigail leaned in to him, as if to reveal a secret. “It’s closer to the booze.”

“Alright,” laughed David. “Bar it is.”

They sat on the tall stools, the bartender wiping the wood in front of them clean. Why David didn’t know; it’s not like anyone had been sitting here.

“What can I get you?” the bald heavyset bartender asked politely over wire-rimmed glasses.

“Tom Collins, please.” Abigail looked at David.

“Gin. Neat.”

The bartender stepped away to make the drinks. Abigail asked, “So how did you find this place?”

“I’ve driven past it a couple of times, and it always intrigued me. It’s not a place Lilly would ever go to, so I never really had an opportunity.”

Abigail looked around the room. “I like it. It’s definitely not a place I’d visit on my own, but it has its charm.”