The Door in the Roots

My first mistake was tripping on a root of a tree, on a trail I have walked 500 times. Something shiny caught the day's last few rays of light. I brushed the dirt and years of decomposing leaves off and saw a brass handle sticking up from a heavy door.

I used my foot to clear the complete outline of the door. On all sides it sat perfectly flush with the hard packed dirt around it. Other than the handle, only three hinges of similar looking material rose above the ground, not even a millimeter. It almost looked like the door was being swallowed by the earth. Or regurgitated.

I told myself not to open it. There were a dozen reasons why coming back tomorrow, with friends and hours of daylight to burn was the smart move.

So, I pulled the handle and the hinges glided like they were just oiled, not a sound other than my own efforts. Under it was not dirt or stone, but a set of steps dug right into the earth. They looked dry and sturdy. It smelled less damp and stale down there than the forest I stood in. Instead, the hallway felt slightly …electric. It was narrow and there was a dim light that flickered differently than torches would. I imagine, I had never been anywhere lit by torch light alone.

I paused at the threshold. This feeling. It reminded me when someone dares you to do something stupid, that moment just before your tongue touches the battery. The metallic taste is somehow already in your mouth. But turning back seemed crazier than going forward, so I swung the door entirely open and stepped down.

At the bottom of the eight or so steps, the hallway narrowed and curved and a light source was coming from further on. It would only take a few steps down the hallway before my entrance, and the only known exit would be out of sight. I stepped closer to the first bend, wanting to see the source of the light, but it seemed to be matching my pace, staying around each next bend.. I shimmied slowly, and stopped multiple times to quickly bound back towards the steps.

It bent and bent, now almost curling on it itself. I turned, suddenly realizing I went too far. I sprinted back to the stairs to find the earth finished regurgitating the door. Nothing but solid dirt remained. I was not surprised, but I was beginning to sweat against the cool air.

Then light down the hall got twice as bright. The dirt walls gradually changed to wallpaper. Floral. Faded. Peeling. Patchy the first few feet, and slowly the dirt became rare, until the glowing floral pattern completely took over. Like ivy completely covering a brick wall.

After a short straight away, the hallway continued to bend right and left angles. Corners that pinched like toy box hinges. And every few feet, doors. Too many. Some were half-sized, for small children or large raccoons. Others were oblong or obtuse, short barn style doors, complete with barn smells wafting underneath.

That was my reality, opening random doors in Wonderland. I looked for one that gave the least amount of creepy vibes. Many were too small, one doorknob glowed red hot, and as I got near, I could feel heat. Another was completely covered by a mirror. It took me a beat to realize my reflection had no head.

Eventually, I came to the most offensive door. Inside was a room full of coat racks. Every coat was dripping wet, but the floor was bone dry. I took a full step in, but kept my hand in the door jam. With my other hand I turned one around, it was a person, hollowed flat, hung up like laundry. Their faces sagged but their eyes, with more depth than their skulls, moved. Blinked. Silently begged for help.

I said “sorry” like that, fixed anything, and shut the door.

I was relieved to be back in the safety of the neverending hallway I’d probably die in. Humans are quick to move the goalposts.

I picked another door, because bad things happen in threes. This one opened to what looked like the diner downtown. Same booths, same greasy laminated menus. But the “people” eating there were all… wrong. Like someone had described humans to an alien, and that alien did their best. Slightly Picassoesque faces stated et me with unsymmetrical eyes, looked at me over menus they gripped too hard with far too many fingers. Still chewing, slurping, sipping coffee that was the wrong color. It had no color.

The waitress turned and smiled at me with teeth that went back too far. She said, “Table for one?”

And I swear, I nodded just to avoid being rude .

That’s when I realized the door behind me was gone.

All the doors were gone. Just endless booths, endless chewing. Why did they have so many fucking fingers.

The forest had spit me out somewhere else. Or maybe it swallowed me whole.

Either way, I’m not lost. I’m seated.

And the waitress is bringing me pie.

She slid the plate across the table. Pie. Cherry. But too red, and it smelled like pennies and… bleach?

“On the house,” she said.

Her voice was kind. Too kind. Funeral-home kind.

I picked up the fork because not doing so felt like insulting her, and it was obvious you don’t want to piss off the help in a place like this.

The first bite burned. Not hot—cold. My tongue bordered on frostbite. My teeth ached, my jaw hummed. The “cherry” wasn't a cherry at all. It was meat. Like those cubes chunks in a can of Campbell's. I wish this was a can of Campbell's soup

I smiled. “Delicious.”

She nodded, far too satisfied, and walked away.

That’s when I noticed the pie looked untouched . Every forkful I took, it refilled. Whole again.

The booths around me started watching. Not with their eyes—most didn’t have eyes that worked right—but with the subtle lean, the twitch of a jaw, the faint scrape of chairs turning. Like a hundred mannequins holding their breath, waiting to see what I’d do next.

I tried standing. My legs didn’t move. Not frozen, not restrained. Just politely refusing. Like they’d decided to sit, and my brain was in no position to argue.

The ceiling lights flickered. One of them buzzed, then dripped. Not water—something thicker. The drop hit the table and crawled toward the pie like a slug late for work.

I whispered, “I want to go home.”

And the whole diner answered, in perfect harmony, “Then finish your slice.”

The fork was back in my hand. My fingers clenched it without asking me first. The pie pulsed. The red filling bubbled once. Like a wink. Even the pie was in on it.

So I did the only logical thing. I stabbed the fork down, straight through the crust. The whole diner flinched at once—every patron jerking in unison, like I’d just hit the fire alarm inside their veins.

The lights cut out.

Silence.

When they flicked back on, I wasn’t at the table anymore. I was standing in the hallway again. The floral wallpaper looked to have taken on a slightly red hue.

The plate was still in my hand.

Empty. Clean. Like I’d licked it spotless.

I dropped it. I did not hear it hit the ground.

My brain said run. But, don’t run on an Escher staircase. No one has the cardio for that.

And plus, they want you to run. I still did not know who “they” were, or why they wanted you to run, but I assumed it made us taste better,

So I walked, the hairs on the back of my neck reaching straight out behind me. Doors lining both sides, all of them humming with something alive behind them. One door shook like it was laughing. A few doors down, one oozed a blue fluid that I carefully stepped over. One smelled like Axe body spray, and that one made me the most nervous.

Finally, I saw it: a door with a glowing EXIT sign above it. Classic trap.

I pushed it open.

Inside was… my living room. Couch. Coffee table. The ugly lamp I keep meaning to throw out. The TV was on, showing a rerun of a show I've been watching.

It was too perfect. .

I stepped in anyway, mostly because I had not seen this episode yet.

The door slammed behind me, and the laughter track from the TV got louder. Then it wasn’t a laugh track—it was the forest. Thousands of voices, leaves and branches cackling in sync. .

The TV characters turned to me, dead eyes bright, and said, “Welcome home.”

Why does everyone here have perfect pitch?

I bolted. Straight back through the door. Straight back into the hallway. The wallpaper was peeling faster now, flaking off like skin after a sunburn. The whole place groaned like it was tired of hosting me.

And then—mercifully, stupidly—there it was. Another door. Small, crooked, glowing faintly like a night-light.

I opened it, and the forest spat me out. Fresh air. Trees. Moonlight.

I fell to my knees in the dirt, gasping. The forest was quiet. No whispers. No laughter. Just crickets and owls making their normal chatter.

I looked back. The door with the brass handle was gone. Just roots now. Tangled and ordinary. .

I would have written it all off as a dream, or I hit my head and was just coming to. But the taste in my mouth was still sweet. Still cold. Still cherry pie.

I staggered up, wanting to run to safety, but I knew whatever happened was done. It was over.

And when I touched my stomach, it pulsed.

Like something inside me was waiting for the next course.