Harriet Porter: Door Beneath the Clock

Harriet Porter has a secret name no one knows about. Or so she thought.

The Letter Under the Floorboards

There was something wrong with the house. What it was, Harriet Porter had no idea, but she’d always known that there was something about it. It wasn’t “wrong” in the way most people thought of. The roof had several leaks. Anytime someone used the kitchen faucet, it made a horrible screeching noise. Ants lived in the wall behind the pantry. These problems are the normal ones.

The house was just… different. In a strange way. Anytime Harriet got angry, the clocks would just stop working. Candle flames occasionally bent in her direction, almost as if they were trying to reach out to her. Those weren’t even the strangest things. One time, she fell out of the tree in the backyard but missed the ground. Instead, she found herself floating in mid-air. It only lasted a few seconds, just long enough for her to settle onto the grass gently rather than breaking her arm. She was eight when that happened.

Amazed and mystified, she told Aunt Maribel. “Don’t invent nonsense,” Aunt Maribel had scolded.

“It really happened!” Harriet had protested. In response, Aunt Maribel sent her to bed without dinner. This is when she learned not to talk about the strange things. She became quite good at keeping secrets.

At thirteen, Harriet had discovered a new secret: her name was Harriet. Not Harry. Not Harold. Not the name Aunt Maribel had always called her. Harriet.

She’d always felt as if there were a word hiding on the tip of her tongue, but could never quite figure it out. Gradually, over the years, she discovered it. The first time she wrote it down, she’d been sitting on her bed with a library book propped open on her knees.

Harriet Jane Porter.

She stared at the words for what felt an eternity. Then a smile appeared. Not a big one, a small one. A nervous, frightened smile. But it was hers.

She’d written the name down in an old notebook and hid it beneath a loose floorboard. It was her best secret that nobody knew.

Nobody. Or at least that’s what she thought, until the letter arrived.

It was nearly October on a Tuesday when Harriet heard a scratching sound. She was sorting through boxes that Aunt Maribel had ordered her to clean. Lifting the lid of a box, she peered inside. “Christmas decorations,” she muttered.

Inside were three cracked baubles, a tangled knot of dead lights, and something that looked suspiciously like a dead squirrel. She closed the box.

“Absolutely not. Am not touching that. No way.”

The scratching came again. Scritch.

Harriet froze. It had come from underneath the floor. She waited. Nothing. She returned to the box.

Scritch. Scritch.

Slowly, Harriet looked down. The old floorboards were warped and blackened with crusted dirt on the edges. She pressed her palm against them. The scratching stopped.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Harriet felt ridiculous. “Obviously it’s a mouse.”

Then the floorboard moved. Startled, she fell backward and landed on her rear end. It lifted itself up about half an inch, then settled back down.

She stared. It moved a second time. This time, something slipped through the gap.

It was an envelope.

Harriet held her breath in shock. The envelope was thick and cream-colored, sealed with dark red wax. Across the front, her name had been written in the most beautiful cursive she’d ever seen. Not the name Aunt Maribel called her. Not the name in her school records. Not even her secret name.

The envelope said: MISS HARRIET JANE PORTER

Harriet reached for it. The moment she touched the paper, every clock in the house suddenly stopped. Downstairs, Aunt Maribel’s shrill voice yelled, “Harold! What did you break this time?”

Her heart pounded. She grabbed the letter and stuffed it into her hoody.

The attic door opened. Silhouetted in the doorway, her cousin Bram sauntered in. Fourteen, broad-shouldered, permanently annoyed, Bram was convinced that the world had been designed with the goal of inconveniencing him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Cleaning.”

“You’ve been up here for an hour.”

“Yeah,”

“How come?”

Harriet shrugged. “There’s a lot of dust.”

Bram glowered at her with suspicion. Then he noticed the floorboard. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

He stepped toward her. Harriet stepped backward.

“Move!”

“No.”

“Harriet,” The name came out before either of them realized what happened. Bram blinked. So did Harriet. For one long second, neither of them budged.

Then he scowled. “I mean—”

A thunderous crash suddenly shook the house, and they both screamed.

Something had struck the front door. Once. Twice. Three times.

Bram ran downstairs and Harriet followed.

Aunt Maribel was standing in the hallway wielding her grandmother’s cast-iron pan. Her husband, Uncle Dorian, was holding a fireplace poker. Nobody said a word.

Another knock. This time, it was more polite. Three soft taps. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Uncle Dorian swallowed. “Who is it?”

A voice answered, “Courier.”

Aunt Maribel looked at Harriet.

Harriet looked at the door. The envelope in her hoodie seemed to press up against her chest. The wax seal was warm.

Uncle Dorian opened the door. Standing on the doorstep was a woman, tall and impossibly thin. She was dressed in a long green coat, despite the mild weather. Silver spectacles –not glasses, but real old-fashioned spectacles– hung on the tip of her pointed nose. A black crow sat on her shoulder.

It looked directly at Harriet, then spoke. “You’re late.”

Aunt Maribel dropped the pan. Bram screamed. He seemed to do that a lot. Uncle Dorian slammed the door shut.

On the other side of the door, the woman sighed. “That was rude,” she said. Tapping the door with a finger, she muttered something under her breath. The entire door frame glowed blue, then the door swung open.

Uncle Dorian stumbled backward as the woman stepped inside. The crow hopped from her shoulder to the coat rack. “Good afternoon,” she said.

Nobody replied.

She looked at Harriet. “Miss Porter?”

Harriet nodded. The woman smiled. “Excellent, I was beginning to worry we’d lost you.”

“Lost me?”

“Not literally.”

The crow cleared its throat. “Mostly.”

The woman glanced at it. “Thank you, Corvin.”

“You’re welcome.”

Harriet stared. The crow stared back.

“You’re a talking bird,” Harriet said.

If a crow could look offended, Corvin certainly did. “Technically, I’m a scholar.”

“Oh.”

“Bird happens to be my current shape.”

Harriet nodded slowly, as if that explained everything. That explained absolutely nothing.

The woman pulled a second envelope from her coat. “This is for you.”

Harriet didn’t take it. “What is it?”

“An invitation.”

“To what?”

The woman’s expression softened. “To the life you were supposed to have.”

Suddenly, Aunt Maribel finally found her voice. “No.”

The woman looked at her. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, you probably should.”

“You are not taking her anywhere.”

Harriet stared at Aunt Maribel. Something strange happened inside her. For years, she’d fantasized about leaving. Trains, cities, apartments, universities, oceans, they all inhabited her imagination. But she’d never imagined someone coming to take her away.

The woman turned back to Harriet. “My name is Professor Elian Voss. I teach at the Meridian Academy of Arcane Arts.”

Harriet blinked. “Arcane arts?”

“Magic.”

Aunt Maribel made a noise somewhere between a cough and a growl. Harriet’s hands trembled. “Magic is real?”

Professor Voss smiled. “You already knew that.”

Harriet thought of the candles. The clocks. The fall from the tree. The strange dreams. The way rain sometimes fell around her without touching her. “Why me?”

“Because your mother was one of the most gifted spell wrights of her generation.”

Harriet’s breath caught. Nobody ever talked about her mother. Nobody ever talked about either of her parents.

“They’re dead,” Harriet whispered.

“Yes.” The professor’s smile faded. “But before they died, they left instructions.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

Harriet looked at the envelope. “What’s inside?”

Professor Voss held it out. “A truth.”

Harriet reached for it, but Aunt Maribel grabbed her wrist. “No.”

Harriet stared at her aunt’s hand. Then at the professor. Then back at Aunt Maribel again. Something in her finally broke. Not loudly, not dramatically. It simply stopped bending.

“I want to know.”

Aunt Maribel’s face went white. “Harriet—”

“I want to know who I am.” The hallway went dead silent. Harriet’s voice shook, but she continued. “My name is Harriet Jane Porter.”

Aunt Maribel let go of her wrist. The professor smiled. Corvin ruffled his feathers. “About time.”

Harriet looked at him. “About time for what?”

“For everything.”

The envelope opened itself. Harriet nearly dropped it. Inside was a single sheet of paper covered with elegant and slightly crooked handwriting. She recognized it immediately – her mother’s. Harriet began to read.

My dearest Harriet,

If you are reading this, then the world has finally become safe enough for you to find your way home.
There are things about yourself you will soon discover. Some of them may frighten you. Others will astonish you.
None of them change who you are. You have always been Harriet. You have always been our daughter. Remember that always, especially when someone tells you otherwise.
There is a door beneath the oldest clock in Meridian Academy. When you’re ready, open it.
Your father and I loved you more than the stars themselves. We still do.

Mom.

Harriet read the letter twice. Then a third time. She pressed it against her chest.

For the first time in her life, the silence around her didn’t feel empty. It felt full. Full of answers, of possibilities. Professor Voss waited patiently.

Finally, Harriet looked up. “When do I leave?”

The professor smiled. “Tonight.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “Tonight?” she asked in a whisper.

“At midnight.”

“Where are we going?”

“Meridian.”

“Where’s that?”

“Professor Voss pointed at the kitchen window. “Everywhere, and nowhere.”

Harriet frowned. Corvin laughed. “It makes sense once you’ve been there.”

The professor opened her coat. Inside was a small brass compass. She placed it in Harriet’s hand and the needle spun wildly.

North.

South.

East.

West.

Then it stopped. It pointed directly at Harriet. She looked up. “What does that mean?”

Professor Voss’s smile became mysterious. “It means, Harriet Jane Porter, that Meridian has been looking for you.”

Outside, thunder rolled across a perfectly clear sky. And somewhere far away, beneath a city that did not appear on any map, an ancient bell began to ring.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Harriet closed her fingers around the compass. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid of what came next. Instead, she was curious. A fiery, all-consuming curiosity. Curiosity, she would soon learn, was a dangerous thing in a world where magic was real.

Especially when it had been waiting for you all along.