Word Diet - short stories with less calories

Ajar (#Farm)

Sitting up in bed, Palmer stared at the closet door and its dirty white paint that was chipped and peeling, exposing older layers of paint that, oddly enough, was whiter than the failing topcoat: like bones underneath layers of dirty, dead skin.

And, the door was ajar.

His family's farmhouse was old, much older than the neighboring homes. It had been a cotton plantation before the North invaded, but after that, it was nothing, just a house, and land with no hands to tend it.

Dead land.

Then great-grandchildren and then grandchildren started selling off the land: piece by piece.

Now, the farmhouse was surrounded by younger houses, rows and rows and rows of clean roofs and stucco. They had no history. Their families didn't understand the past and what they lived on - and lived above. They were too busy buying frozen meals, watching "Real Housewives," and locking their parents away in nursing homes, which are places where the past dies every day.

Palmer swung his legs out of bed and glanced at the nightlight. It was still glowing faintly, bravely doing its duty despite the onslaught of the morning sun.

His gaze returned to the closet door.

It was ajar... and that made it terrifying.

It wasn't an open door, that would be friendly, beckoning, an opportunity, an enticement to pass over its threshold and into whatever exists beyond.

Come on in!

Whereas a closed door is a mystery, something painted with that strange push-pull of trepidation and curiosity.

Why is it closed?

What's behind it?

To hide something... to protect it?

Or perhaps to keep something locked inside.

The world is full of dark and terrible things. Some say that monsters only exist in our minds, that we create them, give them power, and then cower in fear.

But why should we think that the monsters in our minds are any less dangerous?

What if belief can give birth to reality?

The closet door was ajar: neither open nor closed. It straddled two possible realities and, in doing so, betrayed its purpose. It gave no security but offered access; it wasn't inviting but created concealment while allowing for peaking, watching... whispering.

Slowly, Palmer stood, the cold wooden floor welcoming his feet with a subdued groan. He took a deep breath, and then he took a step toward the closet, his eyes focused on the old tarnished doorknob.

The window curtains suddenly blew into the room, waving like horror film specters. Startled, he thought of running to the safety of the kitchen.

But the kitchen wasn't safe either - not really.

Hesitantly, he took another step, and then another, and subconsciously began to reach for the doorknob as the thin vertical slit of darkness beyond the door grew and seemingly became a gaping pit.

"Almost there," he whispered.

But ever so slightly, the door began to move, and he realized that he was too late.