The Door

From the minute we moved into the house, I hated the door. I never wanted to move in the first place, I liked it where we were. But my dad's job moved location after he got the big promotion he'd been working towards and of course we had to move along with it. He worked with some big firm, a manufacturing firm. I'm not sure exactly what he did but we had to leave everything behind so he could give it a real try. Or so my mum said.

I almost hated him for that. But he was my dad and I loved him. But I hated the place he brought us to. The house was a stand alone in the middle of nowhere on the South West coast of England. When we arrived it was raining, the water bleaching down from the black sky in torrents that I thought would never end. The house was grey and dismal in the dark. It's brickwork was plan, a boring cement covering the entirety of the house. The windows were single paned, the sills rotting from the outside. Ivy crept up the wall and was slowly beginning to engulf the front of the house, snaking close to the windows where it had obviously been trimmed back recently. Maybe by the estate agent looking to get a sale. Well it worked, because there we were, sitting in our car staring at the house that was to be ours. I didn't like it from the beginning.

The inside of the house wasn't much better. Dreary corridor after dreary corridor. The whole house felt grey to me, dulled. As if all life had been breathed out of it. I remember desperately hoping we could redecorate. But when I'd asked my mum about it she simply said: soon.

They let me pick me own room. There were four to choose from, besides theirs. I checked them all out, scrutinsed them looking for any nooks and crannies, any scary places, before I finally made my decision. The room I chose wasn't the largest one, it was quite mondest in size with a single bed, a wardrobe and a set of drawers being its only furniture. The room didn't feel as dark as the rest of the house, it was a little lighter, probably helped along by the three windows that adorned the wall facing out to the sea. It was a tremendous view.

I tried to stay in my room as much as possible, but of course, I couldn't stay in there every minute of every day, especially during the holidays. I got restless. But the one place I avoided was the dining room. To me that place was the most claustrophobic in the entire house, despite the enormous expanse it actually occupied. Hardwood floors combined with dark wood-panelled walls and heavy velvet curtains in the shade of blood all mixed to provide a foreboding atmosphere. And then there was the door. That door in the dining room that led into a room unknown. I was told not to go in there because the door was worth a lot of money. There was no concern however, no way was I going through that door.

It was a double door standing six feet high at least. On it was a motif, tiny little tiles all shaped and placed together in a bizarre picture. It portrayed a man in his small fishing boat, angling in the rough dark sea for whatever catch he could find. The sky was dark, overcast with thick clouds adorning most of the sky. Here and there, a blue patch shone through, but to no avail for the lonely man. At the bottom of the picture there was land, a rocky shoreline of great big boulders, grey and covered in moss and seaweed. Below that a grassy verge.

The picture had been framed from the house. As soon as I looked out of the middle window in my bedroom I could see that was the angle the mosaic had been created from.

Of course, when I told my parents about the picture, about it's negative connotations, about the way it made me feel, they laughed it off. Especially my dad. He was a no-nonsense man. He thought I was being ridiculous, I knew he would. My mum listened to me with a little more eagerness however, she heard me out without breaking into her usual goofy grin.

"Don't laugh at her Ted," my mum remonstrated my dad and urged me to go on.

"But, don't you think there's something wrong with it?" I asked. Everyone turned to look at the picture. Of course we were all sitting eating at the dining room table, the dark shiny wood only adding to the darkness in the room. Each of us stared at it for a while, seeing the man in his boat, the dark sky above him.

"There's nothing at all wrong about it," my dad continued, shaking his head as he scooped up another forkful of food. "It's a fine picture, a piece of art. And you're not to go near it."

"Don't worry dad, I don't want to," I wrenched my eyes from the scene depicted on the doors. A hard feat since I was sitting opposite. I decided to focus on my food, the issue at hand.

I avoided the dining room as much as I could, but it was inevitable that I had to be there at least once a day. I tried everything to get my parents to eat in the living room, a much more friendly and cosy environment. But my dad always insisted on being in the dining room, said he quite liked it.

I tried not to be on my own in the house. Stupid, I know, at my age, but I couldn't help it. I felt anxious about being there. The first day I did happen to be on my own was the first time I noticed a difference. My dad was at work, had been out since early morning, and my mum went to go shopping at the local store. Or so the note told me when I woke up and read it. I felt instant alarm knowing I was on my own, felt the hairs rise on my arms and the back of my neck. Taking a few moments to calm myself down I wrapped my dressing gown tighter around my petite frame, wanting the comfort as much as the warmth. I moved through into the kitchen where I boiled the kettle and made myself some cereal. Though instead of staying there to eat I went back into the front room, flicking on the television as I slumped onto the sofa. The noise emanating from the box offered a little solace and I watched eagerly.

After an hour I began to feel restless. I knew I couldn't sit there for much longer so I opted for cleaning my cutlery, giving them a quick wash before leaving them to drain. I headed up to my room and got dressed, pulling on a pair of thick jeans and a jumper. That was the other thing about the house, it was cold. So cold that I had to dress from head to toe for bed. It could have been the incessant rain outside spattering the windows from dawn until dusk. It never seemed to cease, endless rivulets of rain water running down the panes of glass, chilling the house. But I didn't believe it was the rain, or even the cold tinge to the weather. I knew it was the house. The house was a cold furnace, breathing ice and chill into all of the rooms from the heart; the cellar. We had a boiler, an ancient boiler that was always on, yet still, no heat seemed to permeate the chill of the rooms. Especially the dining room.

I was lying on my bed, the blanket cast over my legs to ward off the chill, the rain beating on the windows outside, when I first heard the noise. It was the hum of a moan. A man's voice.

I sat up straight, dropping my book without bothering to mark the page. I felt my heart beating wildly in my chest, in my ears. For a while I listened. I waited to hear the sound again. Sure enough, after a few minutes I heard it again. The drone of a voice. A man in pain.

I didn't know what to do. I was alone in the house and I knew my mum wouldn't return anytime soon. The moan came again, a gutteral noise that shook me to the core. It was coming from inside the house. Although I knew that rationally, my theory was absurd, it was right. I had to go and find out, I knew I couldn't just sit there.

I pushed myself from the bed, feeling my legs protest as I moved towards the door. They felt weak, bending at the knees. I steeled myself as I gripped the door handle and flung it inwards, knowing that to do it quicker would be easier. Nothing greeted me outside of my room door. Only the darkness of the hallway. To the left was my parents room, a little farther down the hall. To my right, the other rooms that I had discarded as taking for my own, and the staircase, leading to the ground level of the house. Unsure which way to go, where to check, I waited for a few moments. I didn't have to wait long until I heard it again, the sound travelling up the stairs, echoing down the corridor until it reached me.

Downstairs. Whatever it was was down the stairs. It made me feel a little safer, knowing that I was at least safe in my room. But I still knew I had to go down, had to find the source of the noise. I felt stupid but picked up a metal candle holder from the top of my drawers before I set out, feeling a bit more comfortable knowing I had a weapon.

I began to creep down the stairs, taking my time to make as little noise as possible, even ensuring my breathing wasn't laboured. As I made it to the bottom of the stairs, my feet firmly planted on the hardwood flooring in my socks, I heard the noise again. The low emission of the groan. And I knew exactly where it came from. The dining room.

I swallowed, hard.

I willed my feet to move, heading forward to the dining room. I moved down the darkened passageway, the only light coming from the front door which had a small stained glass window built into each of the doors. It cast colours across the floor, dancing as the rain that fell dropped down the window, casting flickering shapes.

I was almost there. I could see the door to the dining room ahead of me, dark and tall, panelled wood. I vaguely wondered why anyone would decorate a place in such a drab style. I was on the door sooner than I'd hoped, the familiar moaning sounding louder.

Taking a deep breath I shoved the door inwards, jumping in to sweep my eyes around the room. I saw no one. After a few minutes I realised that my hand was raised above my head, candlestick at the ready. I felt like a character out of Cluedo. I dropped my arm, feeling silly.

Then the moan sounded again. I spun as I finally realised where it came from. The door.

I tiptoed over to the mosaic, my mind churning as much as my stomach. My heart was beating faster than ever, blood rushing through my ears at an amazing pace.

Before me I saw the mosaic. The same coloured tiles depicting the scene, the dark clouds hovering over a rough sea. The boat wavering in the unrelenting tide. The man…. The man was gone. I moved closer, staring at the boat. The man was gone. How can that be? Gingerly I reached out, stroking the tiles. They felt like normal ceramic tiles should, cold to the touch, smooth. A dark filler had been used to keep the tiles together, bridge the gaps.

Where is he? My eyes scanned the picture, searching, unsure. My mind couldn't comprehend how a person in a motif could move, where he could have gone. How he could have gone. I searched and searched, my eyes flickering over the image, taking its entirety in. And then, I spotted him. A small figure clad in brown and green lying on the grassy verge just over the rocks. I crouched to get a better look. In his hand he still held his fishing rod, a small blob hooked on the end. I assumed it was a fish. On his flesh I saw small tinges of red, dots to my eyes.

He moaned again, the sound seeming altogether too loud for the picture. Too loud at all, in fact.

He was hurt, I was sure of it. Hurt by something, maybe something in the sea. He was bleeding.

I stood up, panic rising in my chest. What can I do? I knew that in reality I couldn't do anything, he was a man in a picture. A picture. He couldn't really move. He wasn't really real. I glanced down at him again, saw his limp body on the grass.

Just then, the front door opened. I could hear my mum come trundling in, her arms laden with bags. Quick as a flash I dashed from the dining room to the hallway.

"Mum! Mum!" I yelled as I saw her. She was drenched, her hair patted down by heavy rain drops, bags wet. "Come see," I told her.

"Amanda!" her voice rebounded against the panelled walls, coming down on me doubly hard. "Take some of these bags."

Dropping my candlestick and ignoring the loud thump it made as it connected with the wooden floor, I hastily grabbed some bags from her, lightening the load. I carried them into the kitchen with my mum in tow, placing them gently on the nearest bench. As soon as she had done the same I began again.

"Mum, you have to come see," I told her, pulling furiously on her arm.

She shrugged me off, her brows creasing in a frown. "What is wrong with you?" she asked, her tone harsh. "I'm tired. I'm soaking, let me sort myself out."

"But mum," I complained, my voice whining. I didn't care if I sounded like a child, she had to see.

"What?" she snapped.

"Please, just two minutes," I took hold of her arm again, dragging her through to the dining room. She allowed herself to be led as she unzipped her dripping raincoat with her free hand. I yanked her in front of the picture and pointed. "See."

Her eyes scanned the picture, searching. "What am I looking for?" she asked, her voice a shade calmer.

"The man… he's…" I glanced down myself. The man was back in his little boat, happily fishing away under a stormy sky.

"Fishing," she finished for me with a sigh, pulling her arm from my grasp. She shrugged out of her raincoat, holding it up on one hooked finger.

"Mum he was…" I glared at the bottom of the mosaic, searched for evidence that he'd been on the grass. His fishing rod was gone, the fish he'd caught missing. The grass looked as it always had, a dark shade of green.

"Fishing," she was exasperated. "Now can I go and put my shopping away?"

"Mum he moved! He was on the grass," I pleaded, knowing it would do no good.

"Don't be stupid Amanda, come and help me."

I trudged through after her towards the kitchen, my mind racing. What did I see? Did he really move? Was it all in my head? By the time I was opening bags and stowing the things away into old-fashioned cupboards, I was questioning my own sanity.

I puzzled over the little man in his boat for a long time. I still visited the dining room every day when we ate dinner and every time I looked, he was happily fishing, just as my mum had said.

Was it all in my head? I questioned myself one night as I played with my dinner, pushing the vegetables around my plate.

"Eat your greens," my dad told me, his voice stern. I glanced down at my plate, unable to meet his eyes. My mum had told him about what I said, and of course, he made me feel stupid. Perhaps I'm not losing my mind but he's making me think I am. I swallowed a mouthful of cabbage, balking at the taste. I'd never liked it, yet my mum always insisted on cooking it. And making me eat it.

I finished my meal with the haste of a hare and excused myself from the table, without waiting for an answer. I didn't want to be in that room a minute longer than I had to, or with my dad.

I realised the longer I stayed in the house the lower my mood got, dropping as each day passed with the thought of being there for good. I knew I couldn't stay, but I didn't have any other option. The end of the summer holidays approached and I knew that would be something at least, I wouldn't have to spend most of my time cooped up inside of the house. But of course the start of the new term brought with it a new school and something else to fear. But I'd still knew I'd have to go home to the house every day. Be in that dining room. See the door which caused me restless days and sleepless nights. Stupid, that a door, a house, an inanimate building, caused me so much anxiety. But it did and I could see no way out of my situation.

The second time I heard the noise was when my parents were out again. They were out for their anniversary meal in the local town, and I was neither invited nor wanted to go. But that meant being in the house on my own. I carried a few supplies up to my room, making myself a hot drink and planning to spent the night in there with my book. But only a few short minutes after my parents called goodbye and closed the door behind them as they ran through the rain to the car, the moans started.

This time the feeling of dread didn't penetrate me as it had the first time, though it unnerved me. I tried to ignore it, reasoning that if they only occurred every so often I could drown out the sound. Unfortunately my theory didn't work and I was distracted from my book as the noises of the groans grew louder and more frequent as the time passed.

Slamming my book down in frustration I once again picked up my trusty candle stick, moving downstairs with more ease and carelessness than before. I stalked directly to the dining room and moved straight to face the door, the mosaic looking as dark as ever. My eyes instantly located the boat. It had moved. It was hovering just by the rocks, an oar still sticking in the water, lapping with the waves. The man wasn't there.

My ears searched the grassy verge for his familiar dull clothing but couldn't locate him. Where could he be? Finally I found him. He was sitting on top of a rock towards the left of his boat. He looked more comfortable than the previous time. He was sitting up, fishing rod still in hand. I almost felt him gazing at me, his face turned upwards. Can he see me?

For a while I sat and watched him but he didn't move, couldn't. Giving up I went back upstairs to my book, my mind still plagued. How is he moving? It's a tiled picture!

I heard the door opening at around half eleven and knew my parents were home. I went downstairs to be polite, ask how their night had panned but didn't mention anything about the man in the book. Knew they wouldn't believe me. Didn't want to be laughed at again. They were both in fine moods, had enjoyed their meal and planned to retire to bed. I left them to it.

A sudden idea struck me as I trailed the stairs up to my bedroom, shutting the door against the cold draught. The house which had been standing for at least three hundred years, would have a vast history, I was sure of it. I began to wonder if that meant old records would be stored in the local library in town. I planned then, that the library would be my stop the next day to see if I could learn anything about the house, or the mysterious mosaic.

The next morning I was up early, rising with the anticipation for the forthcoming day. I caught my mum as she was eating breakfast in the front room. Though she didn't care to admit it, I knew the dining room made her feel uncomfortable too. If my dad hadn't left early for work I knew she'd be sitting in there with him.

"Morning," I greeted her.

"Morning Amanda," she smiled, taking another mouthful of her cereal.

"Are you going into town today?"

"I sure am, need a few things," she nodded.

"Can I come with?" I asked her.

"Shopping?"

"No, I actually want to go to the library and thought I could catch a lift with you."

"Of course. You after some new books?"

"Yeah I've finished a lot of mine. And thought I should join for when school starts anyway," although I knew I should be going for those reasons, I was lying. None of that bothered me. I wanted to find out the history of our house.

An hour later we were in the car and on our way into town. Luckily my parents had two cars. My dad had one loaned from his company, a big black thing with tinted windows and leather seats. It was posh, by all accounts. Our family car was a lot less extravagant but I loved it all the more. It took about twenty minutes to get into town, long narrow country lanes that were sidelined by hedgerows and weeds. It was a nice drive, even through the pouring rain.

I've lived in England my whole life, and not until then, did I think it would never stop raining. I think that the sky had only ceased for a few minutes at a time the few weeks we had been there. It was driving me crazy. I wanted to get out of the house, get back on my bike, but I needed the rain to stop first.

My mum dropped me at the library, with a warning that she'd be back in just over an hour, then drove off heading to the local supermarket. Running through the doors to escape the rain, I found myself in a cavernous room. The ceilings were high and made out of glass, as were the walls. In the middle of the room on a table about the size of a pool table was a model. As I inched closer I could see it was a model of the town and the surrounding countryside. An arrow pointing to the library showed where I was. I glanced around the map, checking out the local amenities from the comfort of cover, finding a small local mall and locating the supermarket. My mum really wasn't far away. I urged myself through the second door marked In, finding myself standing beside a counter. The woman who sat behind it merely smiled and went back to her work.

I coughed, rousing her attention.

"Sorry dear," she waddled over. She was an older lady, her hair white and curled on the top of her head in a set perm, a pair of wide rimmed spectacles sat upon her nose. "How can I help?"

"I'm new to the town," I began. "I'm looking to join to library."

"Of course, let me just get you a form." She hobbled away, her long length skirt swaying with the rhythm. She wore thick black tights too. Bringing back a form she handed me a form and told me to complete it. It only took a few minutes and then I was issued with my very own library card.

"You can borrow up to five books for two weeks," she smiled at me, wrinkles creasing her face.

"Thanks. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"I just moved into Godfrey Hall with my family….."

Did her eyes just widen?

"…and I was looking for a book about the history of the place."

"Of course dear, follow me."

I followed the old woman as she strolled along the floor, walking with obvious difficulty. We stopped at the reference section where she pulled a book from the shelf as if knowing it's exact location. She handed it to me and I felt the weight of the leather bound book heavy in my hands.

"This is probably your best bet. This book contains the history of the town as well as many of the various buildings," she smiled.

"Thank you," I told her with a warm smile.

"That's okay dear. If you need me give me a shout." She walked off towards her position behind the counter once more. I smiled to myself, feeling unable to hide my adoration for the lady.

I sat down with the book, flipping it open at the first few pages. I was met with tracing paper pages and tiny text scrawled across the page. I found what I wanted in the contents page and scanned through the book until I was at the right section. I began to read.

That night, as I was lying in bed, all I could think about was what I'd read that day. I ended up checking the book out, as well as a couple of other fiction books for lighter reading. But I'd found out most of the information while I was still there.

Godfrey Hall was built in 1750 when it was commissioned by a man who controlled much of the land and businesses then. His biggest goldmine was the fishing industry he created and controlled on the sea just outside of their home. He often went out to help the men fish, considering it as something of a sport and always came back with plenty of catch for the whole town.

He lived in Godfrey Hall with his wife and two daughters. They were happy, or so it seemed. The book went on to describe the way Godfrey became involved in a woman from the town, a woman who was different to all others. He was besotted with her and couldn't keep away. Of course, it was a secret affair and none knew about it, except the two lovers. After several months of meeting illicitly, she told she was pregnant with his child. He said he would take care of her and the baby.

Soon after that, she asked him to leave his wife and be with her, but he refused, denouncing all involvement with the woman and her child. Several days later Godfrey disappeared leaving no trace. His family searched for him, the police searched the entire town, but to no avail. He was never found. There were speculations about what happened, but none ever came to fruitition. His family remained at Godfrey Hall, protected by his endowment of money.

Several months after his illegitimate child was born, the woman came forward to the family, pronouncing their affair and asking for financial aid. The grieving widow shunned the woman, not believing her testimony. The woman was not seen again.

Godfrey's family came to horrific ends. His youngest daughter drowned one day while playing on the shoreline, she was swept away by a ferocious tide. His eldest daughter moved away, never returning to Godfrey Hall. Originally it was thought she had met a man and married. But her remains were found months after she moved, naked and rotting a few miles away in a ditch. His wife died thereafter. Some say from a broken heart.

The book revealed that even from the first day that Godfrey disappeared the family changed. They all became isolated, remaining within the walls of the house. Some speculated that his wife found out about his illicit affair and killed Godfrey in a fit of rage. Some thought that the grief of losing her husband, drove the family mad, but nothing was ever proved.

As if to contend with the rumour that identified her as a suspect, his wife had a room built onto the house, to commemorate her husband and their loss. They had the front of the doors to that room decorated with a beautiful array of tiles to remember the way that Godfrey built up his empire and how he spent his spare time. It is said that no one, since the family, have ventured into the room.

Since then many other families have stayed in Godfrey's Hall, some just visiting for the summer, some planning on longer term. But nobody lasted more than a few months. There was never explanation either, the family would just up and leave, heading for newer pastures. Those of the superstituous nature believed that the place was haunted, but whether by Godfrey or his wife, they weren't sure.

I couldn't help but wonder about Godfrey, what happened to him. Where he went. I wondered if I would ever know.

The book had certainly given me a lot to think about and I fell into a restless sleep, my mind wandering around the dark possibilities of Godfrey's disappearance.

I woke with a start, covered in cold beads of sweat. I sat up shoving the covers back, panting hard. I tried to catch my breath. I had one thought swirling around my mind. The room. I knew I had to open it.

At breakfast with my parents, I couldn't take my eyes off the mosaic. It made a welcome change from the previous few weeks when I'd tried to avoid it. My dad was dressed in his suit, a mottled brown colour with a dull tie. I was still in my pjyamas, enjoying the comfort they brought in the cold morning air.

"You're back at school soon, aren't you?" my dad asked, breaking the quiet monotony.

"Yep," I nodded while spooning some cereal into my mouth. "Next week."

"Looking forward to it?"

I shrugged. I wasn't particularly bothered. At least, not at that point. All I could think about was getting the house to myself, opening those doors with the mosaic on, exploring the room beyond. It was insane to think I was going to be the first person in there in over two hundred years.

My dad stood up to leave several minutes later, kissing my mum on the forehead and exiting the room with a call of goodbye. I began to eat my cereal even more slowly, playing with the golden flakes in my bowl, swirling them in the milk. They were soggy already. I didn't think I'd be able to stomach them. My plan worked when my mum left the room a minute later. As soon as I heard the kitchen door shut automatically behind her, I leapt from my seat and made for the mosaic at the far end of the room. The man was still fishing in his boat in the middle of the sea, the sky still dark and overcast.

My eyes searched the door, searching for a handle, a door knob, anything that would let me open them. I saw nothing.

"Amanda bring your-" her voice got louder, close before I even realised she'd left the kitchen. I turned to see she was staring at me from the door, clinging onto the doorframe as if afraid to come in. "What are you doing?" her voice accused.

"Nothing, just looking." I jumped back instantly. It made me look guilty.

"You hate that thing."

"I know. I just…"

"Thought you saw the man move?" she snorted, her face twisting.

"Shut up," I shot back at her, annoyed with her for laughing at me.

"Watch your tone."

"Well stop making me feel stupid!" I stormed past her, knocking her sideways. I didn't care. Safe in the comfort of my bedroom I flung myself on the bed, punching the pillow even as I hugged it. After a few minutes, my anger had dissipated. I usually got on really well with my mum, better than my dad at least. He was never at home and thought my mum allowed me to have too many school girl fantasies and issues. That's why I hated that she's told him about the man in the boat moving. He thought I was stupid. He was a rigid man, set in his ways and not going to change for anyone. That was fine with me, as long as he kept it to himself, but he didn't.

About ten minutes later I heard the front door slam. She'd gone out. Scrambling from my bed I raced downstairs, this time not even thinking about the candle stick until I got downstairs, realised that there was something missing from my hand. I shrugged it off, not caring. I knew I didn't need it.

Before I knew it I was there, in the dining room standing staring at the set of double doors, adorned with the beautiful tiles. It was hard to take the full picture in without standing back but I wasn't looking at the picture, or the man in the boat. I was looking for a handle, a key hole, anything.

I searched this way and that, my eyes roving the tiles systematically. I stood up and crouched down, my legs aching as I stooped for a long time. I used my fingers to explore, feeling the smoothness of the tiles, cold to the touch, looking for any anomalie, something that would suggest it could be opened. I found nothing. Zilch.

I had no idea how long I'd been there when the door opened and I heard my mum come in. A pang of dread hit my heart. I didn't want her to find me in there, didn't want to hear the quips she would make. Diving from my knees on the floor I rushed across the room and stood behind the dining room door. I waited there with baited breath, trying to stop my heart from beating so frantically. I heard her heels clunking on the hard wood floor, getting closer and closer, echoing as she walked. She reached the dining room where I was hiding and I heard her footsteps stop. I caught my breath in my throat. What is she doing?

The door swung wide slowly, almost pinning me to the wall. I waited there hidden by the panelled wood as I heard her slink into the room. She was moving quietly, preventing her heels from hitting the wood. Perhaps she's taken them off.

I heard her feet whispering on the floor with only the slightest of sounds. She was almost silent. I peeped my head around the door, grasping the door with my fingers. They turned white even as I began to grip. I saw her there, in front of the doors, staring at the mosaic, just as I had done that morning. Her head roved, rolling from side to side as she took the picture in. I watched as she raised her hand, gingerly pressing her fingers to the tiles. Then, without warning, she turned and left the room. Her normal clacking resumed down the rest of the hall.

What was that all about? I revealed myself from my hiding place, feeling able to breathe again. Does she believe me? Maybe she feels as stupid as I do in front of dad.

I snuck from the room, hurrying upstairs as fast as I could without making any noise. I made it there safely without running into my mum.

I have to open those doors, but how?

I spent the rest of my day on the internet, browsing, searching for any information I could gather about Godfrey Hall. I learned more about the rumours that had flown around following the disappearance of Godfrey, including that his wife, Gabrielle, had known for some time about the affair he was having. Apparently. He had taken to going late night fishing, or so he claimed. But she wasn't stupid and could never see him or little fishing boat out on the waves where he was supposed to be. She followed him one night and found that he was visiting Isabel in her cottage down by the sea, a mile away. She knew then that he was having an affair. But she also knew her own place and would not survive without him, so nothing was ever said. Things got better when he stopped visiting Isabel and Gabriella never asked why. Then he disappeared.

To me, it seemed that either one of those women could be likely suspects. The scorned wife or the jilted lover. There were a few things to consider: whether Godfrey was murdered and if so, who by, what was in the room behind those double doors than none since his wife had ventured into and the question of the mosaic. Who created it? How did it appear to move?

I had a lot to consider. I decided to head back to the library.

On speaking terms with my mum the next day, I asked if she'd drive me back to the library.

"Finished those books already?"

"Yep," I nodded my head, lying. I'd read one section of a book, but that was about it. And I was only taking that to be re-stamped.

"Sure, be ready in an hour. I'm going to meet a friend for coffee."

The drive was even better than the last time, the rain staving off for most of it. I even saw the sun peeping from behind a group of white clouds. We made it to the library in record time and my mum drove off with a wave, promising not to forget me.

The familiarity of the library comforted me as I made my way inside. The same elderly lady was sitting behind the counter. She greeted me with a warm smile.

"Hello dear, back already?" She limped her way over to me. "Legs aren't what they used to be you know!"

"Hi," I smiled back at her. "Yeah I've come to return a couple of books," I dropped the fiction books on the counter. "And can I get this one stamped again?" I pushed the heavy set volume forward.

She eyed it with curiosity. "Enjoying it, are you?"

"Yeah it's fascinating," I told her, nodding. She picked up her metal framed stamp, pushing it heavily into the pad of ink before slamming it onto the inside cover of the book.

"There you go dear," she pushed it back towards me. I picked it up, cradling it in my arms.

"Can I… can I ask you something?" I ventured.

"Of course," she smiled again. She made me feel welcome.

"Well when I read that book I found out about the history of Godfrey Hall, about the affair he had and his disappearance."

She nodded, urging me to go on.

"Well I know that a extra room was created on the house, and that a pair of beautiful mosaic doors hide it."

"Oh yes, those doors are legendary around here," she nodded her assent.

"Well, I haven't been able to find out a lot about the room, or who made the door. Do you know anything?"

"Well, let's see…" she perched on a chair, taking the weight off her legs. "I know that nobody living has been inside of that room. The rumours were, that when Gabriella died, the room was locked for good. Nobody has wanted to break her sacred vow and it has been preseved ever since."

"So nobody knows what's inside?"

"No. Not one person. And it's quite a mystery, I'd like to know myself," she mused, thinking back to the history.

"What about the mosaic?" I pressed, reminding her of the other item.

"Well that was commissioned by Gabriella, paid for with Godfrey's endowment. The man who did it was a local artist, and a magnificent job he did."

"Do you think he saw the room?"

She shook her head, "I don't think anyone but the family did."

"Hmmm. It's strange because when I look at the mosaic, I see a picture, not a door."

"There was a rumour that it's opening was cleverly conceived so that nobody could enter the room."

"Oh." I shook my head, disappointed. Does this mean I'm not going to get into the room?

"Maybe you should talk to the art guild here, they might be able to tell you a bit more about the mosaic?"

"Good idea, thanks." That news brightened me up. "Do you know where I'll find them?"

"Yes," she nodded, pointing with her finger as she began to talk me through the route. "It's on the main high street. If you go left out of here until you meet the main road, and then turn right. Follow it down until you reach the pharmacy. Right by there, there's a little door. It doesn't look like much from the outside but it should have the name on the door. Head up there."

"Thank you so much…"

"Dorothy," she offered her name.

"Thanks Dorothy," I repeated. "You've been so helpful."

"Not a problem my dear. If you find anything else out about the mosaic, come and let me know."

"Will do," I smiled, waving goodbye as I headed through the door marked Out.

I headed in the direction Dorothy had given me, walking along the high street in the blustery wind. I pulled my coat further around me, feeling the warmth seep into my flesh. I hoped it wasn't a long walk.

When I saw the doorway I was alive with fresh vigour. I had another lead. It was painted a bright green colour, hideous but identifiable. Several guilded golden letters still remained on the inside of the door in an arch, telling me that it was the art guild. There was no bell. Instead, I tried the door and found it to be open. I let myself in and trotted up a flight of stairs. They sounded hollow under my feet. As I reached the top I found myself in a huge room, filled with an expanse of desks and papers and files.

"Hello?" I called out as I knocked swiftly on the door frame.

"Who's that?" a gruff voice called out.

"My…my name's Amanda," I felt a peak of apprehension.

"Amanda," an older gentleman poked his head around the corner. He had a long, pointed nose and his hairline was receding. He wore spectacles but had shoved them up onto his forehead. "I don't know any Amanda."

"I know you don't know me, and I'm sorry to intrude," I took a furtive step forward. "Dorothy sent me here, said you might be able to help."

"Dorothy ay," his interested sparked and he stood up, shambling over to me. "How do you know her?"

"I just met her while I was getting some books at the library," I found myself looking up. He was a very tall man, over six feet, I thought.

"Oh you did. And why did she send you here?" he dusted his hands on the seat of his pants.

"I've just moved into Godfrey Hall with my parents and-"

"Godfrey Hall! Dear girl, why didn't you say so?" his tone changed completely and he was a friend, holding out his hand. I shook it gently. "The name's Arthur, Arthur Crooks, and I run this art guild."

"Hi Arthur," I smiled warily at him.

"Don't mind the mess," he told me as he made his way into the depths of the office, indicating that I should follow. As we rounded the corner I saw that amongst all the clutter there were paintings, paints, brushes and pots.

"What can I do for you?" he asked me, as he pulled an extra seat from under the clutter. I took it gratefully, letting the book rest on my knee.

I explained my situation to him, much the same as I had to Dorothy.

"Ah, so you're interested in the mosaic?"

I nodded enthusiastically.

"Okay, well, give me two minutes I'll see what I can dig up." He began rifling through papers on his desk, on the shelves. Scanning through book covers. "Ah-ha!" He pulled a hardback book from the top shelf of an over-crowded bookcase. He placed it in front of me. "This will make good reading for you."

"Thanks," I smiled as I opened the cover, looking at the contents.

"The book details the works of Angus McFarlane. He was a gifted craftsman and among whittling and painting, he did other things, such as your mosaic there."

"Ah," I grinned. "So Angus was the one who made it?"

"Indeed," Arthur nodded solemnly. "I know that Gabriella commissioned him to make the piece after Godfrey's death."

I nodded, listening with intent.

"But what she didn't know was that Angus was related to Isabel."

"Really?" I was shocked. If Gabriella had known that Angus was related to the woman who had an affair with her husband, she never would have asked him to do it. But luckily she didn't and there was a beautiful, if not haunting, piece of work in their dining room.

He nodded. His face was serious as he contemplated the matter.

"Can I ask you one more thing?" I asked.

"Shoot."

"The mosaic is on a set of double doors that lead into a room, do you know anything of that?"

I watched him intently as his face twisted, weighing up his thoughts. "I don't personally. But I think there is an account written somewhere of the room."

"An account?"

"A journal, something written back when the mosaic and the room were created."

"Do you have any idea where I'd find it?

"No I don't, sorry. But that book," he gestured to the open book in my lap, "Should give you a bit more information."

"Thanks so much Arthur, I'll keep it safe!"

"Don't you worry Amanda. If you need anything give me a call," he handed me a worn business card, the corners crumpled. It had his name and the number of the office.

"Thanks again," I smiled, waving at him as I left his office, heading for the cold air once more.

When I made it to the library my mum was already waiting outside in the car.

"Where have you been?" she questioned, her tongue sharp.

"I was just having a look on the high street." It wasn't entirely a lie.

"I've been here ages!"

"Sorry mum, I was done quicker in the library than I thought."

"Never mind. Come on, let's get home and have some dinner."

My stomach rumbled with that thought.

All through dinner, all I could think about was the new revelation. Angus, the craftsman, creating the mosaic in the dining room of Gabriella. Angus being related to Isabel, the woman Godfrey had an affair with. The mystery of the mosaic on the door seemed to consume me. It was all I could think about. When I woke up in the mornings it was the first thing I thought of. And it was the last thing I thought of when I went to bed. I knew I should push it from my mind, I had other things to concentrate on too, but I just couldn't do it. I wanted more and more, the information rattling around my brain like a bag of marbles. I wanted to investigate and solve the mystery of Godfrey's disappearance and the dark door.

"What's that new book you've got?" my mum questioned me, rousing me from my thoughts.

"It's just a book about history," I mumbled, pushing the book further out of her sight line.

"Can I see?" she asked, reaching forward automatically.

"No!" I snapped. "I mean, you wouldn't be interested."

"It's about the house, isn't it?"

It wasn't really a question. My mum knew that it was about the house.

"Amanda, we're a bit worried about you."

My mum's tone shocked me. I sat staring at the woman for a moment, my mouth agape.

"What…what do you mean?"

"Your father and I, we're worried. You're spending too much time in the house by yourself."

"We've just moved to a new place!" I protested.

"You need to get out and make some friends."

"I will, when school starts!"

"Why not now?" she questioned me.

"I haven't seen another person my age since we got here," that was the truth.

"Go and find some."

"What, you want me to trawl the streets looking for people?" I flung my arms wildly in the air.

"No, I just want you to… be with other people," she trailed off at the end, a little confused over her word choice.

"Just give me a break," I snapped, standing up, my chair almost falling over with the abrupt force.

I stalked from the room, books under my arm. What does she know anyway? She doesn't care about this place or it's history. Or about the room. She doesn't believe me about the mosaic. Why should she? It sounds stupid, even to me. But I saw it with my own eyes. I'm not crazy, d*mmit.

I spent the rest of my night poring over the book Arthur had given me. I found out about Angus, the other pieces of art he'd done, the people he'd worked for. There were a couple of pages detailing the mosaic. I learned how the tiles were made, how they were coloured, how the colours were decided upon, how long it took to create. There was nothing about the door itself. Nothing about the set of tall double doors that the mosaic kept sheltered, hiding the room beyond. Nothing about handles that were used or whether a place was left for a key.

I was well and truly stumped.

I fell asleep that night still dressed in my clothes, my books open on the bed beside me.

The day next I felt restless. I had no leads. I wanted to open those doors, shove the mosaic out of my line of sight and see what was in the room. But it didn't look like it was going to be a possibility. I had just about given up the idea for the moment, picking up my book, when I heard the familiar noise of the moans coming from downstairs. Downing tools, I raced down the stairs, almost tripping over my own feet twice, reaching the bottom in record time.

I was in the dining room before I knew it, my eyes racing over the tiles. And then I saw him. His boat had been abandoned in the middle of the sea, a pool of water visible in the bottom. One of the oars was missing. Then I saw him. He was clinging onto the rocks as the furious waves crashed onto him, above him. He didn't look like he could hold on much longer.

I knelt on the floor, my fingers desperately trying to grip him. But it was no use. I saw his head turn, just a fraction. He offered me a smile of sadness before disappearing into the depths.

"Nooooo!" I heard my voice screech into the empty room. I clawed at the tiles, willing him to come back.

"Amanda, what's wrong?" my dad rushed into the room, his arms outstretched. He picked me up from the floor, holding me close.

"The man…he…he…" I sobbed, my heart heaving.

"What man, honey?" he stroked my hair, softly.

"The man from the boat… he fell." I pointed at the mosaic, saw the puzzlement in my dad's eyes as he glared at the picture.

"Honey, it's a picture," he reassured me, still stroking my hair.

"No dad, it's not," I pulled away from his grasp. "I know you don’t believe me, but it's more than that. And he's gone… he's…" I turned to face the picture. Everything was back to normal. The man was in his boat, his fishing rod flung out into the expanse of water.

"Amanda, baby…" he tried to pull me close again.

"Don't!" I screamed at him, pushing his arms away, tears blurring my eyes. "He's real. I know he is. I'm not crazy!"

I sprinted from the room, my feet thudding on the floor as I rushed upstairs, slamming my bedroom door behind me.

I spent the next two days in my bedroom, only leaving for the essentials. I slept most of it away, tired from keeping myself awake, puzzling over the door. Dreaming of the man in the boat, calling out to me for help. I was exhausted. My parents tried everything to get me to leave my room, come downstairs. They wanted me to join them in the dining room for dinner. I didn't think I could do it. I knew that all I'd see what the man, his fingers slipping from the harsh, grey rocks as he slipped into the depths of the ocean. That and their accusatory eyes. I knew they thought I was crazy.

When they next went out, as I was still sulking in my bedroom, dozing in and out of consciousness, I took the opportunity to visit the man in the mosaic. I went downstairs and knelt in the dim light of the room, feeling the cold of the floor and dust clinging to my bare legs. I didn't care. The man wasn't in his boat. He never was when I checked. Instead, his boat had been pulled down to the lower left corner of the picture and he was sitting upon the mountainous rocks. His gaze was fixed on something towards my left, something far away. It almost seemed like he was staring out of the picture. After a while of watching him, unmoving, I glanced to my left. I scouted about quickly to see if I could see what he was watching. I found nothing. There was a tall old bookcase wedged in the corner that my dad had haphazardly thrown all of his volumes on, in total disarray. Then the wall jutted out where the old fireplace began. The old hearth still remained, in good condition too. It was black as night, made of wrought iron. It would be worth a fortune, or so my dad kept telling me. Apart from those two objects, there was nothing I could see that indicated anything of interest. With a sigh of dismay I left the man to his ponderings and made myself a drink and a sandwich before heading back upstairs.

The next day panned out pretty much the same. It was Friday morning. Only the weekend to go before school started. At one time I would have been nervous, unsure. But all I could think about what the mosaic, the door. It consumed me.

I joined my parents for breakfast in the dining room, on their insistence. I ate in silence, shovelling the soggy wheat down my throat so I could leave as quickly as possible. My parents were both as quiet as me, the only sound the clacking of cutlery on bowls. I wondered vaguely if the atmosphere was my fault, then decided I didn't care. I looked up only twice; once to say a solemn good morning that I didn't really mean, once to glare at the mosaic across the table from me. The man had moved into his perch from the day before, staring off into the distance again. Not the distance exactly, but at something. I averted my gaze from the picture, knowing I'd be scalded if I was caught. But I made a mental note to go back later, to visit.

My dad went to work several minutes later, only offering a stern goodbye. My mum didn't even get a kiss. I didn't say anything. My mum left the table, taking all three dishes to wash up. I took the opportunity to see the man from closer up. He was still sitting in the far left corner, his eyes focused. Once more I looked in the direction he was, seeing only the bookcase and the fireplace.

I stomped upstairs leaving him to it. I was fed up, frustrated. I had no idea what he was looking at or what he was trying to tell me.

Trying to tell me. He's trying to tell me something, but what?

It was later that afternoon, when, after thinking about the same thing for hours as my television blared in the background, it suddenly popped into my head. The journal. Arthur had mentioned a journal, something apparently known about but lost in time, nobody knowing of its whereabouts.

Maybe it's the journal? The thought whirled in my head, wracking my body with shivers. In my mind I saw the little fisher man as he sat on the rocks, concentrating on the same spot both times I'd seen him. It's got to mean something.

I raced downstairs, my heart fluttering. I was just about to move into the dining room, my hand resting on the dark wood, when my mum popped her head from around the kitchen door.

"Amanda, honey," she beamed. In her hand she held a rolling pin, covered in flour that flaked to the floor in a mellow fashion.

"Hi mum," I dropped my hand and turned my attention to her. "What are you doing?"

"Just baking," she chirped as she made her way back into the kitchen, heels clacking on the linoleum floor. I never understood why she wore heels in the house, it was a peculiar idiosyncrasry of hers. "I haven't done it for a while and thought we could all use a treat."

"Okay, well what have you got on the go?" I knew I'd have to drop my idea until I got a moment's peace, so I followed mum into the kitchen.

"Well so far a victoria sponge and a chocolate cake," she beamed proudly, pointing to them. The chocolate cake was in the oven rising nicely as the other sponge was cooling on the bench.

"Looks good," I grinned, bending low over the cake, taking in it's sweet smell. "How about some of those delicious cookies you make?"

"Hmmm," she began to rifle through the cupboards, looking for something. "I haven't got everything I need." Her face contorted into a grimace; she wasn't happy about that fact.

"Oh."

Oh!

"Maybe you could go get the stuff you need?" I suggested, stepping towards her a little.

"Oh I don't know..." she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders.

"Oh but mum," I pulled out my best persuasive voice. "I really love those cookies."

"But-"

"And I'll do the washing up," I tried the power of bribery when I realised it wasn't working.

She raised her eyebrow. "All of it?"

"Yep," I nodded my head in a definate gesture, plastering a smile on my face.

"All right then," her smile mimicked my own. "I'll just go get the car keys." She untied her apron and dropped it on the bench where she was working.

It worked!

As soon as I'd waved her off, sending her with thoughts of baking more nice treats, I rushed back through to the dining room for my true intent of sending her off. I wanted to visit the man in his boat.

He was there, as I thought he’d be, sitting atop of his rock staring to my left. I watched him for a while. He was unmoving, static. A piece of the picture. Yet I knew he was so much more than that. As I crouched on the floor, my thoughts whirring, my eyes roved over the possibilities, searching the bookcase, the fireplace. I turned up nothing. I didn’t know what to expect.

I slumped back, falling hard onto my ass. The wood was cold through my pyjama bottoms. Sighing in exasperation I finally lifted my eyes to stare at the man again.

He’d moved. I looked closer, making sure my eyes weren’t deceived. His arm was extended as far as it would reach from his body, the point of his finger almost touching the edge of the picture. His eyes followed his hands. He was definitely trying to tell me something.

Instead of simply searching with my eyes, I knew the best way forward would be to go over there, searching not only with my vision by my sense of touch. I pulled myself along the floor gently, knowing my mum would kill me if she could see the way I’d dragged myself across the floor, lifting up small bits of dust and debris onto my pants. First I searched the bookcase, rifling through all of the books, checking between each on all five shelves. The wood was old and worn, a sturdy bookcase made in a time long passed, I liked it. The books it held didn’t seem to do it justice. I almost felt like they should all have been hardback and leather bound copies of classic literature. But instead the bookcase housed my dad’s obsession with his business as well as a few leisure time books. I wouldn’t have used it for that. After searching the entire bookcase from top to bottom, I found nothing out of the ordinary.

With a huff of disappointment I turned to the fireplace, my one last hope. I searched high and low, on the mantel and the hearth, reaching my hands as far back as they would go, but found nothing. I brought my hands out and noticed they were black with dirt. I wiped them down on my pants.

I sat back, stumped. Is it the journal I’m looking for? Maybe I’m searching for something that isn’t even there.

Just then, I heard the key in the lock of the front door. Mum was home. I jumped up from where I had sat, deflated, and hurried to my hiding place behind the door. I waited once more, hoping she didn’t need the dining room; I didn’t think she would. I was in luck, she swished straight into the kitchen, busying herself with preparations. She must have assumed I was upstairs. I crept out from my hiding place and snuck upstairs, ensuring my feet wouldn’t be heard. With a sigh of relief I got changed.

What now?

I’d been so sure that there something I was missing, something the man in the mosaic was looking at that I hadn’t spotted. Maybe I'm wrong.

It was at dinner that night that I realised I’d been entirely mistaken. The man could see something and he was trying to show me. I was just looking too hard to see it. As I sat in my usual place to eat dinner, facing the doors, I could see him, perched on his rock once more, his arm extended, finger pointing furiously.

From there, as soon as I averted my eyes to the spot he was pointing, I saw it. Something lighter hidden in the shadows behind the bookcase. My heart immediately began thumping. Could it be that this is what I’ve been looking for? I couldn’t stop staring.

“What’s wrong Amanda?” my dad asked, following my gaze. He saw nothing out of the ordinary from where he was sitting. When I looked up I saw the man was back in his boat in the middle of the sea, fishing as always. I wondered if he ever got cold.

“Nothing,” I smiled, finally feeling a surge of happiness. I seemed to be getting somewhere.

“How’s your day been?” he asked me.

“Fine thanks,” I told him. “Yours?”

“Great, made a lot of headway with a new deal we’re doing today,” he beamed. His cheeks were flushed.

“That’s great dad,” I smiled back at him.

“Your mum tells me you made a deal today,” he wriggled his eyebrows.

The dishes! Oh man!

“Yep,” I pulled my smile back together. “It’s only fair since she made those wonderful cookies for us.”

“You’re going to be in there a while mind,” he sniggered, my mum joining in.

“I know,” I nodded.

Once everyone finished, I cleared away the plates and began running the hot tap, squirting a blob of washing up liquid into the basin. As it filled my mind wandered. I usually hated doing the dishes but I didn’t care. I knew it was perfect for two reasons. As well as keeping my end of the bargain and keeping my parents happy, it meant they would probably head upstairs to relax together which meant after I was done, I had the dining room all to myself. It was a foolhardy plan. And it was just what I needed.

I raced through the dishes, washing the pile quicker than I ever thought I could. Pulling the plug from the sink I left the room and as I heard it draining, I headedfor the dining room.

I made a beeline for the bookcase, crouching as I arrived and probing down the side with my left hand. I soon got a hold of the object and pulled it out, scraping my knuckles along the wall in the process. I found myself holding a light, leather bound book. It was small but well used, the pages ruffled and marred with dirt. I stuffed it under my top as I hurried from the room. I shot a final glance at the man in the boat as I left. He seemed to be smiling.

Up in the safety of my room, I setllted myself down on my bed, legs crossed, before I set the journal out in front of me. The journal, for I had no qualms that it was anything else, was smaller than a normal book jacket. It's cream colour was patterened with swirls and dots, closed by a simple silver clasp. The front cover yawned as I unlocked the clasp. The first thing I was was met with was a small scrap of paper, folding several times, stuffed into the journal. I picked it out, unfolding it with care. I saw a harsh weriting lining the pages in black ink, splodges of ink here and there.

Gabriella,

My name is Angus Berthwaite. I write in the hopes that you find this journal, and letter. Your husband, indeed, was having an affair with Isabel, and true to her word, she carried his son. I know this because I was jilted for Godfrey. Isabel and I were together until she met him, she scorned me in his favour. We were cousins and I was in love with her, and she me. Or so I thought.

I have left you this letter, in this hope that when Godfrey returns from whence he has gone, you will be able to admonish him in the correct fashion. He does not deserve such a beautiful wife as you.

Angus

I read it again, trying to make sense of the letter in my mind. Angus and Isabel were together, in a relationship, until Godfrey came along and Isabel left Angus for the married man. Angus, when asked to do the work by Gabriella, left her his letter along with the journal. So whose is the journal?

I laid the letter aside still open, the edges curling naturally into the fold. It's time to find out.

Slicing open the first page I found myself staring down at a beautiful scripted writing. It was in the centre of the page, written in black ink, but no splodges adorned the page. It read: Isabel. Is this Isabel's journal?

I could barely contain my excitement as I turned the next page in anticipation of what was to come.

What I found was a journal full of pages, written in the same neat handwriting, of symbols and text and drawings. What looked like doodles littered the pages, strewn here and there carelesly. As I flicked through the pages I found more and more of the cryptic collaboration. I had no idea what it was. Does it meant something? With a sigh I slammed the book shut; I felt frustrated. I thought the finding the journal would be the key, the key to the mystery of the door. But all it had revealed was a series of diagrams and words, unknown to me, that I had no idea how to begin decoding.

I flung the book across the room with total disregard for presevation. I heard it thump against my door, a hollow sound, before sliding to the floor. It was accompanied by a soft chink. What was that? I sat up, staring at the book that lay open on the floor, several of its pages sticking up. Curiosity pulled me from my seat and I hustled across the book, snatching the book up in my grasp. I gave it a once over, searching for damage as well as the source of the strange noise, finding nothing. Then, something on the floor glinted in the dim light. I croucjhed low, my fingers yearning for this new thing. I hooked the new object, lifing it high in the light. It was a key. An old brass key, slightly mottled with rust, but a key nontheless.

A key! I finally found a key. It must be a key for the door. It must be.

I held up the key, admiring it in the light. It had a long shaft, the top an oval hoop. The lock of the key held a complex system of cuts and dints to fit into an intricate lock. It must be for the doors.

I rubbed the key gently with my hand; some of the rust flaked off, falling to the floor in an orange cascade.

I'll check tonight. When my parents are asleep I'll go back downstairs and open the doors. My heart leapt with a joyful glee. I was finally going to figure it out. I was going to open the tall doors, splitting the mosaic down the middle, and I was going to see what was in the room. I couldn't sit still. My mind raced with the possibilities. Knowing I had to settle down, that my parents would be up for a while yet, I sat back on my bed, crossing my legs into the same position and feeling the familiar warmth, and opened the journal once more.

I scanned through the pages, going through them several times, first turning them quickly, flipping them in rapid succession, then, perusing through them at leisure. I took in the pages one by one, focusing on the text and the diagrams, trying to make sense of them. I saw familiar snatches of words that I recognised…

Hemlock.

…and tried to fit them into the bigger puzzle…



…but I couldn't grasp the harsh language…



…and the pieces wouldn't fit.

I stopped on the last page of the journal. At the top the word Godfrey was written in that same neat handwriting, though it seemed to have a harsher edge to it. She did have something to do with his disappearance! But what?

My eyes scanned the page looking for anything that could be a clue, but I saw nothing but the cryptic language scrawled across the page. A diagram along with it. I studied it for a while but had no idea what it meant. I knew I needed to ask someone, but who?

As the clock on my nightstand switched to 1.00am I crept from my bed, key in hand, I tiptoed down the stairs. The air was cold, damp almost. I pulled my robe tighter and felt glad I'd had the foresight to wear my slippers. I made it to the dining room without mishap where I found myself standing before the patterned doors. I could barely see in the darkened room but didn't want to risk turning on the light. Instead I glided across the room and pulled back the curtains. The bright glare of the full moon illuminated the room in a white glow. As I turned to look at the picture, I saw the man in the boat, basking in the moonlight. It was eerie.

I made my way across the room, a strange sensation creeping over me. I felt a chill run down my spine as I grasped the key harder within my palm. This is it. I felt my heart thudding wildly. I was finally going to see what was behind the door.

I reached the huge doors, and standing before them I held the key, searching once more for a lock. I saw nothing. I crouched low, bobbing this way and that, looking for the keyhole that had appeared since finding the key. I thought it must be there, but I couldn't see it.

I almost threw the key in frustration. This is supposed to be it! Where is the keyhole?

I left the room, not bothering to draw the curtains, and secluded myself in my room once more, my mind stewing. I lay awake for what seemed like hours, my eyes closed against the darkness of the room, my mind working overtime. Just before I fell into a restless sleep I made the decision to visit Arthur once more. He would know.

Saturday morning came with a cold flurry of snow. I groaned as I glanced outside, remembering my mission from the night before. When I finally ventured from my room, the house was empty. I curse. Normally I would have welcomed the peace but it meant I had to make my own way into town. I made some cereal and slurped on a cup of tea while I got ready, pulling on the warmest clothes I could find.

Outside the wind was biting, chilling my flesh from the minute I stepped out. Shivering I paced to the bus stop, dancing on the spot as I waited unpatiently. After ten minutes I saw a small bus tottering around the corner. I had to stop myself jumping for joy. The bus provided little warmth as I clambered into the first seat. There was only one other person on the bus, an elderly gentleman who took his time to study me before offering a slight smile. Smiling back I huddled in my seat.

The journey took fifteen minutes, dropping me on the high street right outside of the art guild. I thanked the bus driver as I clambered away and hurried straight across to the familiar door, letting myself in without hesitation.

"Arthur!" I called out as I stomped up the stairs. My voice echoed in the hollow passageway.

"Amanda, that you?" I heard him answering me, his voice distant. I smiled as I rounded the corner, seeing him buried in a book.

"Hi, how are you?" I asked him, courtesously.

"Fine, fine," he threw his hand in the air, dismissing any further conversation on the subject. "How can I help?"

"I hope you don't mind me coming down?"

"Not at all," he shook his head reassuringly.

"Good," she automatically took a perch at his desk, looking up to where he was still standing. "I found this." I produced the journal, dropping it on his desk with a loud thump.

Immediately his eyes widened as he stared at the journal. Gingerly he reached forward, picking up the book, turning it in his hands.

"It's a journal," I told him as he stared. "Isabel's journal."

He stopped to look at me, his mouth agape. "I thought it was only legend. This journal has not been seen for a long time. Where did you find it?"

"It was in my dining room, hidden behind the bookcase. There's a letter from Angus in the front," I told him, gesturing him to open it.

He did so, taking utmost care as he peeled the front cover back. He plucked the piece of folded paper off, reading that first. He was silent for a moment before he spoke. "So Angus and Isabel were having an affair too." He was speaking to himself. I simply nodded. "And Angus betrayed Isabel, because she betrayed him."

I nodded again.

"This is amazing!" he beamed, his mouth stretching wide. He began to flick through the journal. I saw his face changing, his expression changing every few minutes as he eyed the cryptic text, the pictures scrawled in ink.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked me without waiting for a reply. His words were frantic. "She was a witch."

"A witch?" I repeated his words, waiting for them to filter through my head.

He nodded his reply.

"A witch….but-"

"Amanda my dear, witches were not few and far between in this time. Yes they weren't as common or as feared as they had been in the days of the Salem witch trials, but they were around."

"How do you know all of this?" I asked him.

"I studied it a little," he shrugged.

“So how can you tell?” I asked, peering at the pages with him.

“The language used, the symbols, the things mentioned,” he told me, continuing to flick through the pages.
“So what about this last page?” I pointed to it, the name scrawled on the top.

“Ah,” the noise escaped his lips as he continued to stare at the page, his eyes darting back and forth. “This is a curse.”

“A curse?”

“Indeed. It seems that she cursed Godfrey, “ he nodded.

“With what?” I asked.

“It’s going to take me a little while to get down to the nitty gritty of this, make us a coffee.” He instructed me. I found the kettle nestled between several books and a few dirty cups. I rinsed them in the sink, not caring much about their condition and boiled the water, making two cups.

“Where’s the milk?” I called over, searching for it.

“There is none.”

“Black coffee it is,” I took the two cups over to where we were sitting. “So, what can you tell?”

“Well, I haven’t had long to study it,” he glanced at me sternly, but I ignored him. “She has cursed him to live for all eternity.”

“It doesn’t sound like much of a curse to me,” I shook my head as I thought about the possibilities that would bring.

“If you were my age you wouldn’t say that,” he winked. “She confounded him to live, without living.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” he shook his head, putting the book down momentarily to think on the subject. He took a sip of his coffee, wincing at the bitter taste. “There’s also this cryptic message written at the bottom of the page. It says: Use with the key, the password: James.”

“I wonder what that means,” I shook my head. I glanced into my lap, hoping to find the answers. “I wonder why James is the password?”

“James was her son,” Arthur told me. “He was the boy that Godfrey sired.”

“Oh.”

The thoughts were swirling in my head. James was the son who Godfrey had with Isabel, whether he recognised it or not. And his name was the part of the key. The key to what?

I left Arthur with the journal, thanking him for his help. I made my way home, key in my pocket and my mind full of thoughts.

It was only when I’d gotten home and spent most of my afternoon sulking about any possibilities, that a sudden thought occurred to me. I was in the bath at the time, the water hot and enveloping after my cold journey.
The key. The password. The key is for the door. The password is too! How has it taken me so long to get that?

It took me all of my strength to refrain from jumping from the bath then and there and rushing downstairs. Instead I made myself stay there for another five minutes, enjoying the warmth, before washing and heading to my room. I pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a thick jumper, craving both the warmth and comfort they brought. I towel dried my hair and brushed it before finally, I allowed myself to pick up the key. The house was still empty.

This is it.

I stood before the doors, the artificial light in the dining room offering an orange tinted glow that illuminated the mosaic, giving it an almost happy look. But I knew different. It felt like the mystery was finally going to be solved, the answer revealed. I swallowed, preparing myself for the secret that I was about to learn.

Standing forward with the key in my right hand, I raised it an inch, waiting for something to happen. There was nothing. The man in the boat looked directly at me. I thought I saw a slight glint of excitement in his eyes. I shoved that thought away telling myself not to be so stupid. I knew what I had to do. Opening my mouth I uttered the word in a small but sturdy voice. It came out as little more than a whisper: James.

I jumped back, startled as something changed within the door. I heard something clanging. It was deep within the doors. The tiles began to shuffle, moving to the right the sea churning with the force, as they made way for a keyhole. It appeared on the right door in the middle.

My heart thumped in my chest, wild with both excitement and anticipation. I saw the keyhole appear in the door as if being pushed forward from the inside. The clanging stopped when the lock sat flush with the rest of the door.

I took a deep breath. Did that just happen? I stooped low bringing my eyes to the level of the lock. I tried to peer through the hole that had appeared before my eyes. I saw nothing much except a dim greyness. It reminded me of being outside, of the rain and constantly fell at Godfrey Hall.

I took another breath as I straightened up. My heart beat hard against my ribcage, my stomach churning savagely. I thought I might throw up. Closing my eyes I tried counting to ten. I realised it wasn’t working when I forgot how far I’d gotten and started thinking about the door.

It’s time.

Raising the key I pushed it forward into the lock, feeling it slide into place naturally. I turned it to the left feeling a slight resistance before it clicked. I felt the lock slide back and the door was open. Using the key to open the door, I pulled it towards me, watching as the mosaic split in perfect halves. The man in the boat was nowhere to be seen.

I was greeted with a blinding white light that left spots dancing across my eyes. A few moments after that disappeared the greyness I saw through the keyhole returned. I saw why.

I found myself facing a turbulent sea. Waves crashed against huge boulders, white froth foaming high. The sky was a deep grey threatening rain at any time. At my feet I noted a grassy verge, sloping gently on a hill towards the boulders. The grass was luscious green, damp from the sea.

I’m in the mosaic. My mind reeled. The sight that greeted me beyond the door was that of the mosaic. The grey skies, the rocks and patch of grassy land were all the same. All that was missing was the man. Where is he?

As if on cue I saw his little boat rise on a wave, his head bobbing over the height of the boulders. I could only make out that the colour of his hair was a deep blonde colour. Slowly but surely, he made his way towards me. His boat rose with every wave, allowing me a little glimpse of him each time. I eventually began to glean more information about him the closer he got. He was a stout man with broad shoulders. He wore a jacket of brown that covered his torso, a green smock beneath. Perhaps a fishing thing, I thought.

Several minutes later I watched as he mounted the rocks, clambering over them briskly, a rope in his hand, the tether for the boat. He motioned me to go to him. I glanced around me in slight hesitation, concerned, then I shook it away and travelled towards him, my feet propelling me.

“It is you,” he spoke to me, the hint of a smile on his face.

“Godfrey?” I asked, my voice coming out as barely a whisper.

He nodded, his face solemn. His face was pale and wrinkled, looking like worn leather. He had a short beard the same colour as his hair.

“What is your name?” he asked me from where he sat on his perch.

“Amanda,” I told him, stepping forward a little.

“Amanda,” he mused. “What a pretty name.”

I smiled. This man was of a different time, almost antiquated.

“Amanda, you have done it.”

“Pardon me, but what do you mean?” I asked, my brow wrinkled.

“You have found the way in.”

“You mean, through the doors?” I pointed behind me.

He nodded. “I have been trapped in here for so many years. So many decades have passed that I have had to spent my time on the sea in my boat.”

“How many?” I asked.

“I lost count,” he shook his head, a far off glint in his eye. “But it has been a long, long time. Many other families have stayed at Godfrey Hall. Many other children, like yourself, have seen the life I have lived trapped in a mosaic.”

“Did nobody else try to open the doors?” I asked. I couldn’t believe that other people had seen the man in the mosaic moving as I had, and not done anything.

“Sadly, no. Other children, upon telling their parents, have caused a rift within the family. A rift that I was able to watch unfold over numerous meals taken in the dining room. And as sure as any other, that family would move on. You, have been the exception, Amanda.”

He smiled at me. He looked like a kind old man when he smiled.

“I knew there was something about the doors, about the tiles on them,” I began, trying to find my words. “I couldn’t not do anything about it.”

“How did you work it out?” he asked. He jumped down from his perch landing on a pair of solid green wellingtons. From up close I could see the burst blood vessels on his cheeks, spattering his nose.
I shrugged as if it hadn’t taken long at all. “I just followed the leads, I guess.”

“Well, thank you. If you hadn’t I’d surely be doomed to an eternity of torment on the seas,” he gestured to the scene behind him. I could see the sea buffering the rocks, the wind beating fiercely down on us as we stood.

“I found Isabel’s journal.”

“Oh, you know about Isabel?” he sounded disappointed.

I nodded.

“I wasn’t aware she kept a journal.”

I nodded again. “She kept a journal for all of her spells and things. I found out that when she left Angus to be with you, he got angry. He stole it from her when you disappeared and his it in Godfrey Hall for Gabriella to find, only, she didn’t.”

“And for that, I’m glad,” his voice was firm. “I’ve done some terrible things in my time and spending even a moment with Isabel was one of them. I had no reason for it, I was happily married with two lovely children.”

I pursed my lips. I wanted him to go on but felt like saying anything would only serve to silence him.
“She was temptress. A beautiful woman who many other men in the town wanted. I know of several other men who lay with her, including Angus. They were cousins I believe, but his heart was taken from the moment he was old enough to love. I suppose I felt complemented that she wanted me. Of course, I didn’t know what she was then, or I would never have accepted her. As it was, her nature was hidden to me, and so our affair continued for several months. When she told me she was pregnant with our child I scorned her. I knew then what a terrible thing I’d done, and I simply hoped it would go away. Of course, I hoped in vain. Isabel was a dark witch and she punished me for leaving her, for turning my back. She cursed me to live forever on the seas beside Godfrey Hall. She knew it would torment me so to see my family shattered and hurting. She wanted me to hurt. And so I have been here ever since.”

“You did an awful thing,” I nodded, trying to be truthful. “But I don’t think you deserved to have this fate.”

“Thank you dear,” he told me, tears misting his eyes. “Now that finally the doors to the room have been opened, the mosaic temporarily broken, I will not have to suffer this fate anymore.”

“Really?”

“She was a powerful witch but even the darkest of curses have their clauses, and mine was this: anyone who was courageous or determined enough to find out the mystery behind my disappearance who found the key to open the doors, would set me free.”

“So, does this mean you’re free?” I grinned, happy in the knowledge. I knew he’d suffered for many years as a tiled man who sailed the high seas. He was locked in a prison in pursuit of something he could not get back: his happiness.

“I am,” a single tear slid down his weathered cheek. “Amanda I thank you. You’ve have done a great service.” A brilliant white light began to appear, engulfing everything. “May the Angels watch over you.” He grinned at me.

The light became brighter, a luminescence that overtook everything. Soon, he became entirely a white transparent sheet as the light enveloped him. I shielded my eyes from the intensity, scared they would burn.

When I opened them again I was back in the dining room, standing behind the double doors looking at the mosaic. At first I thought I’d just dreamed it all. Thought I’d finally gone crazy. But as I studied the tiles arranged on the doors in a beautiful manner, I noticed that something was different. The sky was still a dark great, the clouds threatening to open at any minute. The sea mimicked its colour, a deep shade of dirty blue, the waves crashing against the boulders at the bottom, sending froth spurting in all directions. I saw the grassy verge at the very bottom of the picture, green and damp with water. The little man still sat in his boat in the middle of the picture. The boat was small and old, a dark brown wood. The man who sat in the boat, however, was not Godfrey. It was a picture of a man, nothing more. A man who fished in the sea for his supper. Not one who was tormented or hurting as he stared into the windows of Godfrey Hall, knowing the pain he’d subjected his family to.

The mosaic was simply that, a mosaic.

I smiled. I felt a huge sense of relief wave over me. I felt calm, like everything was going to be okay. My purpose at Godfrey Hall was complete and I could continue with my life.

New school term, here I come. I grinned wildly as I left the room, closing the door shut behind me. Outside I noticed that the sun shone outside, lighting our huge garden in a warm glow. I opened the door and went outside to play.



Word count: 15,410

Third place in April 2012

ID: 1782293   (Rated: 18+) Long, Long, Long  Prompt-free contest for stories of the lengthier variety. See you in September! by Elisa, Stik 15K