The door is gone.

They say when it rains it pours; today that was certainly true.

The deluge was managing to slither through a crack in the rotting ceiling, collecting in a bucket I’d found under the sink. The tone of it hitting the rusted steel was irregular enough that it refused to fade into the background; I couldn’t help but mark the sound of every drop.

It was doing nothing for my patience, already stretched thin by the trek back to the cottage amidst the stormy conditions. Half frozen, utterly drenched, heels burning from the rub of the new leather of my shoes - I’d clambered through the door cursing until I was blue.

I swear, they don’t make things like they used to. I pulled my notepad from the breast pocket of my supposedly waterproofed coat, only to find it limp and dripping. Utterly useless now; it’d be warped beyond penning by the time it dried. I’d make the short walk to source another one as soon as the weather calmed.

It seemed whoever had stayed here last had also received a thundering reception from the heavens, the ashes from a fire that had been burning long and hard still sitting in the fireplace. They’d not done me the courtesy of cleaning up after themselves. Nor had the owner. Not that I had anyone I could complain to, as he’d not even deigned to greet me on my arrival; I’d simply been asked to pick up the key from the post office in Ulpha before making my way to the valley.

Some smalls bones revealed themselves in the ash as I brushed it into the shovel - the dregs of a small animal snared for a stew perhaps. Then something else. It would have been obvious if not for the absurd pile of charcoal and cinders burying it; stark white in contrast. A notepad.

I glanced at mine, still sitting sorrowfully wet on the table where I’d left it. I pulled the notepad from the debris and dusted it off. It was sandwiched by black leather, portrait (not landscape as I preferred), and appeared hand-bound - completely unique. Some handwriting had been carved into the back panel as a sort of primitive embossing.

Fireproof

I chuckled, evidently someone had attempted to test the theory. If only I could find myself a new fangled notepad that was also rainproof and I’d be unstoppable. I took note of this small grace, and placed my new friend on the writing desk.

I spent some time warming myself by a freshly established fire, setting the iron poker down on the hearth after shuffling some of the coals that had started to take to the flames. My fingers had been so cold that they now tingled against the heat, itching. I glanced over at the writing desk. Now that I was warm, dry, mostly content (with the exception of that infernal dripping coming from the kitchen) my motivation seemed to be returning. I even felt somewhat inspired; as if with each lightning flash something was being ignited within me. I stared at the notepad on the desk, resolute. I was going to write; I was being compelled to. By the humbling gloom of the day, the power of nature on display, and the miraculous gift of this new notepad - as though it was meant for me, in this moment.

I ambled to the desk. A coffee warming one hand, I couldn’t decide whether to occupy the other with my pen or a cigarette. I opened the notepad, flicking past a few pages that seemed stuck together with age and inkblots, I found my blank canvas and began to write. The dripping of the rain into that bucket behind me serving as my reminder of the passing of time, as I slid into a familiar trance of narration.

Utterly breathtaking. Each wondrous stretch of the landscape, idyllic and abundant with nature's gifts, rolled intimately into one another. Silence, but for the uplifting chuckle of a Merlin in the distant treeline. I opened the door. How freeing it is, to spread your arms wide and feel nothing but the gentle kiss of tall grass against your fingertips. Nothing in sight but green, green - everywhere green.

I took a brief drag of my cigarette, eyes scanning the drying ink on the page. Wait–

I opened the door.

When did I–? Perhaps it was the cold starting to seep back into my bones that had me writing utter nonsense mid-flow. As the fire had begun to dwindle a cool draft was now creeping in at my neck. The smoke of my cigarette began to tickle at my eyelashes, a burning whisper of a breeze. I turned to find the kitchen door open.

Well, that would explain the cold. These old cottages have much in the way of homely quirks, but doors of a slightly mismatched size to their frame, wasn’t one of them. I strode to the kitchen, glancing into the bucket as I passed - half full. I closed the door, stoked the fire, and returned to the desk.

It's almost as if this entire collection of birds, flowers, and streams is all just for me. An overwhelming beauty laid bare amongst the hills, my own personal blanket of peace. I was going wild with joy and appreciation of life, the likes of which I’d never experienced before.

Perhaps I’d be brave enough to give Susie a call and finally ask her on that date.

I heard the Merlin again, mixed amongst other bird songs. The phone is in the fire. I laid back into the grass allowing it to engulf me, its cool blades shielding me from the baking face of the high noon sun.

A pang of something sharp hit my nostrils, at first I dismissed it as the dregs of smoke from my dwindling cig, but it persisted. Then it was accompanied by an unusually violent crackling from the fireplace. I rushed over to find the rotary phone dancing amongst the flames, its cream casing bubbling and sputtering, cascading the foul odour into the room.

Suspending my disbelief in order to give me time to dash to the kitchen. I grabbed the bucket, now full, and used it to douse the flames. An angry steam rose and I had to remove my glasses to clear the mist from them, taking the opportunity to rub my eyes. But no, I wasn’t seeing things. As I placed my round frames back over my nose, there it was - the phone. Half melted, plastic falling to one side as though it had been weeping, the phone was in the fire?

I stood to breath, centre myself, and collect whatever semblance of sanity I thought I possessed amongst – whatever was happening. Perhaps I just needed some air.

I padded toward the kitchen door, but with every step unease was growing within me. I placed the bucket back in its place beneath the dripping ceiling and proceeded to grab the handle.

But the handle was no longer there. Neither was the door, doorframe, nothing - as if it had never been there. Only the wall remained.

I stumbled back in disbelief, kicking the bucket with my heel and knocking it to its side. I didn’t care to put it back in its place. I turned to the desk stepping towards it slowly. Listening, I was careful to observe everything in my peripherals as I travelled. I looked down at the notepad.

The door is gone.

My chest heaved as I tried to control my breathing, swallowing hard, I gently took my seat. I don’t know what possessed me, what I expected in return, but unless I truly was going mad I had no other explanation for what was happening. I tried something.

Hello?

Be quiet.

I pushed away from the desk slightly, the leg of my chair scraped against wooden floorboards yet it made no sound. I made to yelp but again, no sound escaped. I couldn’t even hear the sound of my own breathing anymore, the sound of my heartbeat, that up until this moment had been pounding in my ears.

My pen trembled in my hand.

Who are you?

Minutes passed without any more words appearing on the page. I attempted a word out loud, a whisper, a cough - still I couldn’t hear them.

What, are you?

No response.

I looked to the kitchen again. The door was still missing, a smooth wall remained, that lonely bucket tipped to one side before it. Even though the rain continued to pour, I realised I could no longer hear the dripping. I surveyed the rest of the room. It was decorated with sash windows that opened from the bottom. Perhaps I could squeeze through?

As I braced my body to dash to the nearest window. Two new sentences appeared on the page before me.

The windows are gone.

You will not move.

The light in the room darkened all at once as the windows disappeared. Each leaving behind a perfectly manicured wall, as though it had always looked this way. I tested the strength in my muscles and I was torturously aware that, although I still had the ability to move, I would not.

You will not move.

Not ‘you can’t move’ but rather, somehow I didn’t want to. Somewhere in the back of my mind, call it gut or instinct, the chemical memory of my body knew I should flee. But I didn’t. I did not move. My arm hovered still over the page, pen unmoving. Perhaps I didn’t need it. I hadn’t written my thoughts about escaping through a window, yet it had still sensed my intentions. Could it hear me? Get inside my mind?

Whatever it was, whatever it could do, how it was doing it - I had no idea. But it seemed that whatever words it penned became the truth - instructions for reality to bend to.

Pages began to twitch, flipping over slowly with an unknown force. It stopped on those first few pages, stuck tightly together, a whisper of ink hidden within their joining. Slowly they began to prise apart. Unlike what you’d expect from three dry pages that had been fused over time, there was no ripping or warping, no parchment dust as they all fought to separate. They opened like a wet maw, a sticky brown substance forming strings woven between the pages, they strained as they unfurled from each other with the delicate tension of a spider's web. But the colour? It was almost like tissue, like –sinew.

The notepad stilled, settling on the first of the stuck pages. It read simply–

Guestbook

Below it was a list of names, each with scribblings beside it.

Mr Alan Whitaker - He refused. The door was gone. He was halfway through it.

Mr Billy Thwaites - He refused. There was an iron poker in his skull.

Mr Frankie Lowe - He refused. His organs were gone.

The notepad turned to the second page and the list continued.

Mr Thomas Rudd - He refused. He had never existed.

Mr Colin Morton - He refused. He was inside out.

Ms. Dotty Morton - Too young for the pen. She was in the fire.

The notepad turns to the third page.

Mrs Sylvia Morton - She refused. Her reality was horror enough. She was mad with grief.

Beneath it was one name without a description. The only one without a description thus far.

My name.

Fresh ink swirled over the page.

Your truth is mine to write.

Only through another can mine be.

Make my existence the truth.

Only then can I be real.

You must write me.

Do you refuse?