I didn't mean to go through the door. I never do. But the PULL! those tiny threads tugging... tugging me down there. You know me! At least you think you know me. Everyone thinks they do. But no one knows about the door. I don't do it every night. Heck, sometimes I can go a whole six months without walking through that door. But the torture! Every time I walk by it, I feel it. Tugging. I have lived in this house for 20 years. I walk by that door twenty, maybe thirty times a day. Every time, the strings, they tug. It is the worst at night, when it is dark and I feel the most alone. Feel the least bit alive. Then, the strings, they drag at me. They drag me to stare.
Last night was a particularly bad night. I sat and I stared. I stared for hours. Started at that knob. Willing my hand not to reach out and turn it. Willing my body not to get up out of my chair. Willing my legs not to carry me through the door and down those stairs. Will can be a funny thing. Will can be weak. Wills can be broken. Last night my will broke.
As I stood from my chair I knew it was a mistake. I knew that there was no going back. The strings that I had let tie themselves to me, oh, so many years ago, had won. I was going down those stairs, and there wasn't anything I could do about it.
I turned the knob. Slowly, ever so slowly, I made my way through that door and down those 23 steps. I count those creaking steps every time. Wishing. Pleading with myself to just turn back. Telling myself that this isn't worth it. The satisfaction of going down there is just not worth it. I tell myself this, but I never believe it. I know I don't, because once I have gone through that door, I never turn back.
When I made it to the bottom stair he was there. He is always there. Waiting. Willing me to come. Dreading when I arrive. He loves to talk to me. To hear about the things going on in the world. He is stalling. He knows what I have to do before I can go back through that door.
He is a wonderful man. One you would be proud to bring home, to introduce to the family. But I can't do that with him. Oh no, not him. If anyone knew about him, they would take me away from this house, take me away from him. They would tear this place apart, plank by plank, brick by brick. They wouldn't allow another person to be ensnared by these stairs. Wouldn't let anyone else be drawn into the scene we are forced to play out. But I love him. I can't stand the thought of leaving him. I can't stand the thought of going to see him.
He had a wife, you know. She was the perfect housewife. She was a jealous housewife She couldn't stand the thought of him being around anyone else. Eventually she locked him down here. Her friends would ask where he was. She would simply tell them he was away on business. His employer called to ask where he was. She told them he had moved on to another job. Nobody questioned her, because of course, everyone knew, she never lied. I never met her.
30 years ago, they say, there was a murder in this house. They told me not to buy this house. What if there were ghosts? Silly, I told them. I don't believe in ghosts.
I should have listened.
I relive that murder every time I go through that door.
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