Behind Door Number 12

Part 1: Two sisters

Dear readers, 

I want to thank you for offering your time and attention to this story. Most of the facts therein are, I'm afraid, based on real-life events which have taken me about a decade to process and still give me nightmares. After all these years, I think it might help me to open up and share (call it therapy). As long as you don't try to look up and visit the place mentioned in this manuscript (which I have purposely disguised) you will be safe. 

This story welcomes you, and so do I, into the strangeness of the events that follow--

'Please stop looking at me like that—'

Siska was watching me rub the twitch nipping my brow.

'Turn around,' I said, shifting my tone to something more neutral. 'Look up at what's right above your head.' I vaguely aimed an index at the wall.

Siska nodded at the framed law practice certificate and looked back at me in silence.

'So we're clear,' I said. 'We can't let this story stain my name. Nothing of what I'm about to tell you can get back to me. I owe it to my clients and God knows they need me.'

Siska cleared her throat. 'I could go there myself if you'd lend me some money.' She inhaled sharply as she assessed my reaction. 'Could bring along a few guys from the trade. I'm sure they'd enjoy a trip to a haunted house.'

I half-chortled. 'A trip to the middle of nowhere, I promise. Most days, I think there's no better way to enjoy it than by never setting a foot in there. Besides, I didn't ask you to swing by so that we could plan a road trip with your friends.'

Siska shuffled, eyeing the exit.

'Your friends are different this time,' I said, standing by my desk and blocking her view of the door. 'Your sponsors are good people. And I'm happy for you. I really am. But I called you here because you're my sister and I want to help you build a following on your paranormal channel. And—' I looked down to my scuffed stiletto. 'Because you're the only person I trust to hear my story.'

Siska's eyes lit up.

I avoided her gaze to remain on course. 'So normally your work involves a séance. Am I right?'

'Yeah—' Siska's pitch was off by an octave. 'That's how it goes, most of the time. Unless there's really fuck-all. I mean nothing to rouse the senses, as you might say.'

The space between her eyebrows pinched into small folds as she continued. 'We get hired or a tip-off about some grizzly place. Then we go and look for anything unusual...you can imagine the rest. If we pick up anything suspicious—anything from a recurring, unexplained sound or a gut feeling that something isn't right—we'll try and build a bridge between the place and the invisible world that surrounds it. We summon what's lingering in between and look out for paranormal manifestations with the cameras. Then we respectfully ask for the spirit to move on from the premises and find its way to peace. It's not like we have to tent over the place to smoke it out or anything.'

I paced a few steps from my desk to a window overlooking Prinsengracht. 'Uh-huh,' I said, 'I've seen the stuff you've published about your investigations. It's not bad. I take it you only post what's worthwhile?'

'Pretty much.'

I turned around and studied Siska, until her eyes swiped from her phone to meet mine.

'Listen—' I removed my glasses and pressed the bridge of my nose between my fingers. 'I do have something you'll think is worthwhile.'

I claimed my desk chair, poked my glasses through the crown of my hair, and took a seat. 'What you need to understand,' I said, 'is that this place isn't abandoned. You have to travel to the area, rent out a room or multiple rooms. Stay a few days.'

Siska began smiling and crammed her phone into a pocket. 'So, earlier, huh? That BS about this not being a paranormal story?'

Her eyes gleamed and, as I watched her, I considered my next words carefully. 'You'd have to break a bunch of rules to get what you want without being caught.'

She cocked her glossy, black mane. 'You're serious?'

'Your only way in would be as a guest and you'd have to carry out your real work at night. You wouldn't be alone; you might say that the walls there have ears. Then, of course, there's our agreement about this never coming back to me or to this firm. And if I'm still not giving you enough to put you right off going, then take this; this thing that you might see or hear—call it a spirit—I don't think it lives in that place.'

I tapped a finger on my desk to hammer out the words. 'You have to draw it in with something meaty.'

What's "meaty"? Vote and find out

Photo is by Alexander Suhorucov (Pexels)