Wayne Batson - The Door Within

Or maybe they didn’t.

Aidan felt doubt creep into his mind like an early fall frost, premature in its coming and dangerous to new growth. As Aidan thumped down the basement steps, he began to wonder.

Aidan bumped into the box with the one-eyed doll and awkwardly shuffled over to the workbench to flick on the light. Aidan and his parents stared at the dark alcove beneath the stairs. Even in the light of the small work lamp, there could be no mistake. There was nothing there.

There wasn’t even a trace of the three broken clay pots that had contained the scrolls. Nothing. A numbing cold skittered over Aidan’s body.

“I can’t believe I let you drag me all the way down here.” Aidan’s dad shrugged. “Clay pots! That’s a good one, Aidan.”

“But, Dad! They were right here! I saw them… they just appeared!” Aidan pleaded.

“The only thing that appeared, son, was your imagination.”

“But what about the scrolls? I didn’t make those up!” Aidan argued, his own belief fading. “Would you at least look at the scrolls?”

“Aidan, I don’t know. They’re prob-”

“Please, Dad. Just look…”

“Son, look, I don’t have time for this kind of…” Mr. Thomas hesitated, shifted uneasily, and then changed course. “Okay, okay! I’ll look through them, a little-after we finish dinner. But listen, no more of this stuff about clay pots. It was cute, but enough is enough.”

Later, Aidan’s mom and dad took the scrolls and went upstairs. Aidan vaulted after them, only to see their bedroom door shut. Deciding that his parents would most likely need a good bit of time to examine the scrolls, Aidan flopped down on his bed to draw.

He had just begun sketching the outline of a haunted house when his parents came out of their bedroom. Aidan’s father sat down on the corner of Aidan’s bed. He held two of the scrolls in his arms. Aidan’s mom stood behind him. She had the other scroll.

“Well, I looked at your scrolls, son, and-”

“But you’ve been gone for just ten minutes!”

“Aidan, please don’t interrupt. The reason that I didn’t keep reading is that I think I’ve read this story before.”

“You… you have?!” Aidan gasped.

“When you described it to us at the table, it sounded familiar, but it’s been fifteen, maybe twenty years since I’ve read it.” Mr. Thomas glanced away. A look of irritation flickered on his face for a moment. “It’s called The Story. It was very popular, for a time.”

“But on scrolls?” Aidan blurted out.

“I’ve never seen it written on scrolls before. I’m wondering if these might be some of the original handwritten drafts.”

“Who wrote it?”

“Uh, that I can’t remember. But if these are originals, they could be worth a bundle-even more than your baseball cards! We should check on it. I heard that an original manuscript of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow went for a half-million dollars at an auction!”

“But, Dad, I don’t think this is just a story,” Aidan said. “It seemed so re-”

“What? Real? You’ve got to be kidding me!” Aidan’s father snorted and looked at his wife, who had put her hand over her lips to stifle a laugh.

“It’s not funny, Mom.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. But it just made me giggle.”

Aidan’s father handed the two scrolls to Aidan. His mom gave Aidan the last one. “Be very careful with these,” she said. “If they are collector’s items, you should keep them in a safe place.”

Aidan looked down at the scrolls and shook his head. They didn’t seem very magical anymore. “It could be real,” he offered weakly.

“Son, this is a work of fiction, a fairy tale,” his father explained.

“It’s different,” Aidan said.

“Oh, Aidan, Mom and I both think this is a wonderful story full of beautiful ideas, but it’s just not true.”

“How do you know?” Aidan said, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Awww, now look, son,” he said sympathetically. “I know because. .. I know. That’s all. When you grow up, you learn how to judge things-tell the difference between reality and fantasy. It’s a story just like Snow White or The Sword in the Stone, or even Star Wars.”

“But it said… for those who will believe.”

“Aidan,” he said, stiffening, growing irritable. “Believing in something does not make it real. Life just doesn’t work that way!

This, this is nothing more than a fairy tale. Do you believe that Little Red Riding Hood is real? Could a big, bad wolf really knock on our door? Or what about Jack and the Beanstalk? What about geese that lay golden eggs?”

“Dear,” whispered Aidan’s mom.

“No, he’s a teenager now. He needs to leave this imaginary stuff behind. Do you understand me, son?”

Aidan gritted his teeth and nodded.

His parents gone, Aidan sat alone with the scrolls. He felt betrayed both by his parents and by himself. It wouldn’t be the first time my imagination got the better of me. But just once, I wish they’d believe me.

“Stupid!” Aidan yelled at himself as he recklessly knocked the scrolls onto the floor. He threw his face into his pillow and glanced one more time at the scrolls. They had unraveled, a page of the third scroll on top. It was the page with the poem.

Aidan drifted off into an uneasy sleep, with the words “Believe and enter” still dancing in his mind.

A car door slammed and woke Aidan earlier than he wanted to be up on a summer day. With some effort, he opened his eyes and uncoiled an arm from his favorite goose-down pillow, the one his mom had bought for him when he was five. For some reason, Aidan had immediately grown attached to it. And now, many years later, no matter where it was on the bed when he went to sleep, the pillow always ended up tucked snugly under his arm.

Aidan put his pillow aside, sat up, and blinked. Bands of light streamed in from the blinds and fell upon the scrolls, which were neatly bundled at the foot of his bed. The parchments looked golden in the sunlight.

Mom must have picked them up off the floor, he thought.

Aidan immediately felt the urge to read them again. Why? He did not know. They had, after all, gotten his hopes sky-high for nothing. Still, the urge was there.

Forget it! I won’t give in! He shook his head and threw a corner of his blanket over the scrolls, leaving a peculiar oblong hump at the end of the bed. The sunlight lingered on the hump for a few moments more but faded as dark clouds rolled in from the Rockies and smothered the sun.

After a quick change, Aidan was online, checking email. Nothing but spam, as usual since Robby had been at camp. It didn’t stop Aidan from jotting a quick note to Robby anyway. The message complete, his finger hovered over the mouse, ready to click SEND. But then he hesitated.

Aidan’s stomach did a flip-flop and tightened uncomfortably- like he’d just broken something precious in a gift shop but couldn’t afford to pay for it. Then, he glanced over at the hump on the bed and had a thought. Aidan clicked the mouse back in the email field and typed “P.S.” underneath his original message. After all, he thought, Robby would believe it.

Then again, Robby might just say: “Ri-ight, Aidan. Magic scrolls?”

Aidan deleted the postscript and hit SEND. His stomach did another flip-flop.

Hoping to cure his churning belly, Aidan wandered downstairs in search of breakfast. As he poured a large bowl of cereal, his thoughts began to drift. There was a small part of him that wasn’t convinced that the events of the previous day had been figments of his wild imagination. A timid but determined voice spoke up in his mind.

The clay pots were there, and I know it!