Opening the forbidden door

(Please note that this is a work in progress to be completed at a later time.)

 

It was in my childhood that my eyes opened to the Invisible World. In the vicinity of my papi’s farmstead was a forest my parents had ardently forbidden me to wander to. Needless to say, they couldn’t have enticed me more strongly to explore it’s leafy profounds and thus I frequently snuck off there to play. And my eagerness intensified even further when I met there a boy about my own age that I became friends with and with whom I played countless hours under the auspices of the verdant foliage.


On some occasions, my bon ami took me to his parents’ house, which lay in a small clearing in the middle of the forest. It was a musty old building that was not exactly a cottage but not quite a villa either and often felt like it was larger in the inside than it looked outside. All over the house were curious accoutrements that looked like some enigmatic relics of a bygone age, giving off a mesmerising aura. I never saw my friend’s father there and even his mother I only caught fleeting glimpses of as my friend hurried me out of the house as soon as he saw her heading home on the twisting forest trail.


But for all of the house’s peculiarities, one thing in particular drew my attention whenever I visited there. In the salon stood a massive and lavishly ornate mirror that was always covered with a heavy tarpaulin. I often asked my friend about the mirror but he just said that I should stay away from it so that he wouldn’t get into trouble with his father. Being courteous enough to respect his wishes I refrained from probing deeper into the matter but eventually my curiosity got better of me. Thus one day, when my friend was fetching us some sugarbread, I crept silently to the salon and with a single heave yanked the cover off the mirror. Having laid bare the object of my inquiety I then peered avidly into the beguiling shades playing on the surface of the silvery void.


What I saw in the mirror was beyond description and so remains to this day. All I can say is that I  remember being filled with both boundless rapture and utter dread at the same time by the sights flowing before my eyes. I don’t know how long I stood there transfixed by those strange visions, but I was abruptly brought out of the daze by a yell seeming to erupt from the very walls of the house itself. Turning my head, I saw a figure like fury incarnate approaching me with what looked like seven-league bounds, feebly followed by desperate cries from my friend for his pere to halt. With my heart in my throat I ran for my dear life, not slowing down to take the shallowest breath until I laid my feet on my grandpa’s doorstep.


I never saw my friend again after that. And try as I might, I couldn’t find my way back to his house. I even forgot his name, not being able to recall a single syllable of it. Naturally, I was absolutely disheartened by what had happened, but these concerns were soon precluded by other, more ominous consequences of the incident. Not long after those events I began... noticing things. There were eyes gleaming like dying embers in the darkness. Menacing whispers woven in the the rustling of leaves. Errant footsteps where no one had passed for ages. When I came across a jacket dragging itself along a nightly road muttering annoyedly, I realised that I would be accompanied by these phantasms for good.