Inspired by the Spirit of Atlanta 2018 DCI show.
God damn it, I thought. Once again, I was running errands while Erik sat on his ass playing video games. It was his fault our front door broke. He was the one who locked himself out of the house and had to kick the door in because he couldn't get through the window. We had only just bought a house, and I was already beginning to regret it.
I pulled onto the highway and turned up the radio. Taylor Swift was playing. Gross. I turned the dial to the next station, but all I could hear was static. I continued to scan through the stations with no luck. God damn it. I went back to Taylor Swift. Even she was better than angry silence.
I shake it off, I shake it off!
The song ended (thank god) and an ad for a car wash started playing. Halfway through their jingle, the radio began to cut into static. "No, damn it!" I said, hitting the speaker. "Come on!"
Just as I was about to give up and turn off the radio, another ad started playing faintly. I could only hear bits and pieces.
"...Dan's Doors...experience...never forget...low prices...stay...119 Brimstone..."
The ad cut out again.
I turned off the radio dejectedly. I was gonna go to the Home Depot and grab their cheapest door, but maybe I could find some lower prices at a specialty store. Wait, who the hell just sells doors? Weird.
I plugged "119 Brimstone" into my GPS and it auto-filled the rest of the address. Three miles away. Convenient.
I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes later. I don't know if you could call it a parking lot. It was literally just a large patch of dirt and gravel. The store looked relatively decent though. A cute little A-frame building with a wooden sign that must've been hand-painted. "Dan's Doors". There weren't any windows on the front, instead there were nice little flower planters on either side of the door. It was a nice door, which was to be expected.
I got out of my car and walked up to the entrance, the gravel crunching under my work boots. Should I knock? It looks like somebody's house. Maybe the owner was a sad woodworker who made and sold doors for a living. Fuck it. I grabbed the wrought iron handle and pulled open the heavy oak door. I stepped in to the dimly lit hallway and shut the door behind me. I was in a small, enclosed mud room covered with blue wallpaper. I opted to leave my boots on, and reached for the door handle in front of me. This door looked exactly the same as the front door. I tugged on the handle, and peered into the room behind it. It was very dark. I began to feel unsettled, and decided to just go to the Home Depot. I closed the mud room door and turned around.
The door was gone.
What the fuck? There was just- nothing. Drywall covered in the same boring wallpaper. My stomach sank. I ran my hands over the surface of the wall frantically. Was I hallucinating? What the fuck.
I slowly turned back around. There was a white piece of notebook paper taped to the mud room door. I had to lean in close to read the dark red ink.
Open me
I started to panic. I clutched at my chest. I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to faint. Claustrophobia was setting in. But I did not want to open that door.
After a few moments, I gave in. I grabbed the handle, squeezed my eyes shut, and ripped the door open.
Silence.
I slowly opened one eye. The room was dark, and I couldn't see the walls. I could tell the room was of a decent size. There was a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. At least, I thought it was. I couldn't see the ceiling, it was very high. Like a church roof. Under the light was a small picnic table. On it, was a knife. And two jars. And a loaf of bread. I walked over to the table slowly, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It was the ingredients for a PB&J sandwich.
