The Locked Door

The forest is alive with the sounds of mourning doves singing to each other, perched above the trees, watching me with indifference. Their coos mesh with the chirping of crickets that I can’t see, but I know are somewhere near. Time seemingly stands still in the quiet solitude of the woods. If I focus hard enough, I can hear the gentle hum of the wind as it tickles my skin, raising goosebumps on the exposed part of my forearm. A light but constant chattering of my teeth ensues. The mountain air is always cold, especially this time of year. I don’t mind it. The clean and cool air helps to purify my body of the negativity I have harbored as of late. I inhale the intoxicating scent of pine and let it fill my lungs to capacity. I can feel the calming energies of the earth rising from its core and erupting through me, sending out harmonious vibrations as I exhale. My feet sink gently into the soft soil. After a long day of running errands in the city, it feels great to be home. 

I’ve spent the day gathering all the essentials I need. I’ve got plenty of food, drinks, and a pile of books to help with the research aspect of my latest project. This should hold me until the end of the week when my first draft of Magick & Mischief is due to my editor. 

The land that surrounds the cottage now belongs to me since becoming my father’s successor. The job is a lot harder than I could have imagined, not that I would ever admit that out loud. I need to prove to him, and myself, that I have what it takes to become an even greater warlock than he was. I know I am strong enough to run things on my own, to nurture and grow my magick without his evil eye around to stiffen the tiny flame within me. He isn’t here anymore to throw doubt in my path. 

Standing at the top of the road leading up to the cottage, I turn to look at the valley below. The city is fully visible from here, and I can’t help but mourn for a life that was never mine. A normal one, with normal problems, and a normal family. One that is proud to hang up my straight-A report cards on the fridge. A home filled with light and love, as opposed to constant criticism and disappointment. Maybe in another life. 

I sigh deeply, turn on my heel, and head towards the front door. Vines cover the entire structure from the tip-top of the roof, down to the leaves littering the floor. It is obscured from view, should any hikers come across it by accident. I haven’t exactly mastered the vanishing spell yet, but I’m working diligently on it. Until then, the vines will have to do. The welcome mat is camouflaged under browning leaves and it takes me a minute to find the key to the place. It’s an old-school, heavy brass key the size of my forearm. We have trouble accepting modernity around here. Can you imagine carrying that thing around the city all day? I can’t, so it stays here. Once I finally get in the door, I am welcomed by the sweet aroma of lavender. I’ve taken it upon myself to gather as much as I can from the fields and fill the house with its woodsy scent. 

“Lights please,” I ask the old cottage, and it obeys. 

It took the better part of the last year for this place to realize that its ownership had changed hands. I knew I had to be patient and that soon enough it would submit to its new master, but I never expected the fight it would put up. I’ve been locked out during the cold winter months, my showers rudely interrupted by a sudden gush of ice-cold water, and I can’t forget the time the tiles came alive and tossed me out onto the porch. I don’t dare forget to mop since that incident. 

My father was never a compassionate master, but he at least had the loyalty of the place. He ruled with fear and not even the cottage could stand up to him. I vowed I would earn its respect without cruelty. I didn’t need to be cruel and cold. Although sometimes it is rather tempting.

The sun has now gone to sleep, tucking itself into the distant horizon, and immediately, the silvery shine of the moon embraces the night sky. We are most powerful at night, thus I leave all of my writing for after the setting of the sun. I’ve accomplished some of my best work after dusk. I welcome the night with open arms as Salem, my raven-colored cat, snores happily a few feet away. 

After a few hours of hyper-focused writing, I make a decent dent in the number of chapters I need to get done for the night. I'm not quite finished but it warrants a well-deserved break. I stretch my arms to the sky letting out pained groans as I try to crack my back on the chair. As I come back down, my eyes settle on the door towards the back of the room. The door that leads to the cellar.

I haven’t gone in since that dreadful night a year prior, unless it's to throw sticks of strongly scented herbs like they're bombs, closing the door immediately behind me. Other than that, I avoid it entirely. I know I can only run for so long. If I want to right my wrongs, I understand I have to get off my ass and confront the demons that demand my attention. 

I will myself to stand, and slowly make my way towards the ominous door. Every step stretches on and I feel like I am walking on a treadmill. I keep the slow pace until finally, I stand before it. My body is quivering, I am trying not to projectile vomit all over the place. My hand firmly grasps the knob, unsure whether or not to turn back and make this a problem for another day or face my demons head-on.

Don’t be such a coward, echoes the voice of my father, bouncing off the walls. Mocking me.

Even in death you still control me. I take several deep breaths, forcing the shaking in my hands to stop.

He can’t hurt me anymore, I decide.

With enough anger surging through my veins I open the door with confidence that I didn’t recognize. The steps to the cellar are a dark and agonizing journey, with only the light of my phone to guide the way. 

There he lies inside a makeshift coffin, built from the wood of the trees surrounding the cottage. His skin has turned a sickly gray color with purple spots decorating his skin in patches. His body is as stiff as stone, just as his heart once was. A grimace is painted on his face, surely directed towards his only child during his final moments. His arms are placed to his sides, just as I left him. I haven’t had the courage to come down here since that night. Now here I am, facing the one thing I feared the most.  

Although he’s been down here a full year, he still appears as youthful as the day he died. Warlocks and witches decay at a slower pace, due to the elixir we drink to sustain our youthful appearance. Unfortunately, it doesn’t gift us eternal life. We haven’t quite fixed the bugs in our formula yet, but we do live several hundred years because of it. As a result, our bodies are slow to rot as the remaining elixir is purged from our bodies after death. But the smell you ask? That is almost always present. Hence the hoarding of lavender and various herbs throughout the cottage, especially in the cellar. 

I stand with my arms crossed at the base of the steps, looking down at the man who often looked down on me in life. It sure does come full circle.

Being so close to his rotting corpse, I can’t help but transport back to that night. I still remember it with haunting clarity. I hadn’t been able to conjure all five elements to my protection circle during my training session, which led to him belittling me as always. He threw his head back laughing at my incompetence, berating me as if I was less than a bug squashed beneath his boots. A nuisance and nothing more. My cheeks were beet red with embarrassment and shame. I felt like a toddler being reprimanded in front of friends, even if it was just the two of us. That anger led to a terrible accident. 

I didn’t mean to kill my father. Sure we had our disagreements but I would never harm a soul. I cry at the thought of having to kill spiders when they find their way into my room for hell's sake. I had no idea that uttering the death spell, Subita Morte, in my father’s direction, would actually work. I completed the most powerful spell that most experienced warlocks could never accomplish in their lifetimes. It is a spell that takes all the energy in your soul to manifest. Some don't even recover from it and join in their victim's fate. It's a practice that takes centuries to perfect. Yet I did it. Someone who couldn't even manifest water into a glass to drink at the time. I finally did something of value. Something my father would finally be proud of. Yet, it cost him his life. The irony is not lost on me.

The guilt alone has not allowed me to give my father a proper burial. He has not gotten a celebration of life ceremony where he can be surrounded by the magic of those from our Coven. I have robbed him of all of that. How can I face what I've done, in front of others no less? What would they say? What would they think? I needed time to figure it all out. Maybe I’ll claim he fell off the face of the Earth never to be seen again. I can say his declining health led to a death no one saw coming? I didn't know how I would explain it. For now, he will remain in the cellar.

I  make my way back up the stairs in a hurry. I fear his eyes will suddenly open and his big hands will find their way around my neck. I stumble on a loose board and nearly tumble all the way back to the floor. My heart is dangerously racing, hands trembling as I pull myself back up. I'm sure I am as pale as a ghost. I can almost imagine a tiny smile forming on his petrified face. 

I lock the cellar door behind me, my body sliding down its frame, unsure how it ever got this far. What will happen if my secret is found out? I can only seclude myself in this place for so long before arousing suspicion. If they haven't started talking already. News travels fast around here.

I collect myself, steady my breathing, and dust myself off. I had no time to worry about that tonight. I jog to my desk and attempt to continue where I left off. However, my eyes rarely look away from that locked door.

Suddenly, while lost in the trance of the cellar door, a very distinct smell begins to waft in. It bleeds through the cracks in the doors and the vents above my head. Up until that point I have been successful at keeping it at bay, keeping it under wraps and confined to the cellar.

Salem’s fiery eyes watch closely from his perch, the judgment of a thousand house cats peering into my soul. If he could speak directly to me I know exactly what he would say.

I close my laptop, throw on a jacket, and march toward the shed in search of a shovel.