Closed Doors

The Son never shines on Closed Doors

Some people swore the house was haunted. Perhaps that’s why it stayed so empty. And maybe that’s why people avoided it, and treaded carefully around the property line; as if they were afraid one wrong step would bring some hex, or other curse. Occasionally the rebellious high-school kids would to explore the grounds, fueled by adolescent curiosity and a foolish sense of indestructibility. Through their own idiocy something would happen, and the rumor mill would spin once more. The house would find itself lonely again.

However, there was one visitor the house could always rely on. Angel Sinclaire had been sitting on the rotting front steps on a regular basis since he was a young boy. The house had always provided sanctuary, a place to gather his thoughts, and he found solace in its silent emptiness. This time he sat there on a plank held in place with two nails, a cigarette between his lips and a battered Bible across his knee.

Angel never really fancied himself a God-fearing man, but the old book had served him well over the years. Usually it was in ways that would enrage a priest, make nuns cry, and otherwise be considered blasphemous. Not that it mattered much anyway. He was already convinced he was destined for Hell. One might even think he was pondering this if one had seen him sitting there, gazing blankly out at the horizon. In reality, he was more or less wondering how what was left of the step was not buckling under his weight.

He puffed at his cigarette, and watched her climb the hill, form silhouetted by the storm clouds gathering in the distance. Sile knew to find him here. She had joined him many a time in younger days. Some of those times their intentions, too, were less than innocent. The place was familiar to her, so familiar that she made little use of the carved cane that always served as her eyes. She moved closer, her footsteps slow, steady, and calculated.

“Angel?” she called softly and her voice floated on the same breeze that whipped about her dark hair. Pale eyes searched, but never saw.

“Here.” Angel replied. That one word pointed her in the right direction. A smile curled Sile’s lips. It was a tender expression that Angel couldn’t help but mimic, even if it couldn’t be seen. He reached out his hand to gingerly grasp her wrist and guide her to the empty space at his side.

“They said you were back,” Sile spoke as she groped the plank before she sat, “I should smack you for not telling me, or your mother, first.” Once she was settled, her hand moved to trace the lines of his jaw and neck. This touching was a ritual, and Angel found it comforting. Slowly, her hand slid down his chest and over his knee. It brushed the Bible’s leather binding, and she fingered the vellum thin pages with a smirk on her face. “Still trying to find God?”

“God gave up on me a long time ago,” Angel replied, and took another draw from his cigarette.

“Why do you say that?”

“You can only forgive a son so many times.”

“I don’t think you could have done anything too terrible. I know you. Unless you killed a man in cold blood.”

“I have.” Angel said plainly.

Sile paused for a moment, and her fingers curled. “…Oh.” She swallowed. Angel didn’t lie. “How many?”

“I’ve lost count.” Angel replied, distant.

A thick silence settled between them, and they knew. Nothing was ever the same again after that.

Authors Note: This was written for a short story contest. It had to be 600 words, and start with "some swore the house was haunted" and end with "nothing was ever the same again after that". Alas, I did not place, but it was worth a shot. However the main character has been a muse of mine for years.