The Locked Door

 Amidst the City’s newest skyscrapers The 30^th Street Hotel stood as an ode to the elegance of older generations, carrying within its walls and rooms and hallways the sins of its occupants.

Darrell had never been inside the hotel, but one evening, a call came from the hotel's manager, requesting his services.   

He stood in the lobby, basked in the jazz music radiating from the hotel’s atrium and admired the flickering lights of the chandelier. Lavender lifting from the front desk as excitable guest waited to check-in and on the wall a painting of the hotel’s founder. Robert Davidson. Portrayed with his arms around his wife and his children at their side. A smile from Robert that equaled the luxury of the hotel. The painting dated 1898.

“Good Evening, you must be the locksmith.”

“I am."

“Was told you were the best.”

“Not a door in this city I can’t unlock."

“The family is excited you’ve agreed to assist us. The suite in question has remained shut since the early nineteen hundreds."

The employee introduced himself as Albert. Led Darrell through an employee exit to a room where soiled linen and empty trays and luggage carts lined the walls. Hotel employees drenched in sweat, barking orders. And in the corner of the room a service elevator with slow doors serviced a line of employees waiting to travel throughout the hotel. And all the employees carried a collective look of burden pulled over their face like a heavy mask.

An older man stepped out of the elevator. Years working at the hotel worn on his face like a badge of honor. The man’s face soaked in regret.

Albert escorted Darrell into the elevator. “We are going to the 35^th floor. The Davidson family sees this floor as sacred. Nobody is allowed up unless accompanied by an executive member.”

“Guy downstairs looked at us like we were about to die.”

“I must have missed him. You must excuse me I’m at the end of a double shift.”

“Maybe I should have taken the day off.”

“Let’s get this over with shall we? We are headed to suite 3549.”

The service elevator rumbled to the top floor. And it’s opened doors revealed a long hallway with cracks running like the vines on a tree and a torn carpet and exposed wooden floors . 

“It’s this one over here isn’t it?”

“What makes you sure you can get this door open anyway?”

“Not a single door I haven’t been able to open.”

“Indeed.”

“I am the best I assure you, as my father was before me. Have I mentioned my father was also a locksmith?”

Albert’s face blushed. His eyes traveling to the service elevator and then back at the door. Eyes strained and his hand shaking and Albert placed both hands behind his back and smiled. “Not all doors should be opened.”

“Nervous?” Darrell said.

“Say you tried and couldn’t do it. The Davidson family wants its structural integrity respected which is why you were called and our engineering team didn’t simply destroy the door."

“I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I should have said this earlier but you should not have come here. All the staff knows the rumors of what happened in this suite.”

“It’s rumors?”

 “It’s not unusual to hear pounding coming from inside.”

“Pounding?” Darrell said.

“I don’t know, pounding. Pounding like the devil is trying to get out. And by the way the only reason I got stuck escorting you here is because I drew the short straw at the executive committee meeting this morning.”

“Your coworkers are messing with your mind.”

“The family is not in the right state of mind.”

Darrell knelt at the door. Knelt as though he were in a church, showing respect and admiration for the door. Placed his ear against the mahogany. The smell of the wood lifting to Darrell’s nostrils.

Removed his toolkit from his coat, chose the first pick, and began to work.

Lights flickered in the doorway. The air growing colder. Waiting for the thud and pounding Albert spoke of, but only the gusts of winds pounding the facades of the hotel filled the empty hallway. And though they were only a few floors away from the bright chandeliers, away from jazz music flowing in the atrium, away from the luggage carts and soiled linen, Darrell felt he and Albert had isolated themselves, like a raft in an ocean, waiting for a storm.

Continued to work. Putting one pick in his pocket and choosing another. Each pick carrying a memory, like the other rooms in the hallway. Memories of his father training him in lockpicking and memories of his father telling him every door can be opened.

“How much longer?”

“More intricate than anticipated.”

“Shall we go? Say we tried? Perhaps that’s the easiest option.”

“What’s easiest is rarely best.”

Albert shrugged. “What an expert.”

“I am, in fact. Albert. Let me remind you that you called me here. Bet there isn’t a locksmith in the City capable of opening this door.”

Removed another pick. Pressed his ear to the door. Pictured his father touching his shoulder, guiding his hand. Like this, he would say. Like this.

Click.

Door opened to motionless shadows. Dim lights of the hallway gave light to the dark room. The cold air of the hallway replaced by the warmth waiting by the door. Darrell placed his pick back in the toolkit, whispering as though to thank his father. And walked through the threshold.

“Going to alert the family the door has been opened.”

“You don’t want to go inside yourself?”

Albert laughed.

“You spent all this time waiting for me and you aren’t going in?”

“Alright, maybe for a moment. It's been over a hundred years since anyone was in this room.”

Removed his flashlight from his belt. Aimed it at the room. A foyer with a small brown table in the center. Envelopes and letters spilling over the table, left open. Black cursive on the letters and Darrell moved closer toward the table.

“I wouldn’t touch anything,” Albert said.

Stepped further into the foyer. Eyes moving from one side of the room to next. Tracing the walls and the table and squinting toward the next room, watching the darkness as sweat dripping from his head. 

Walked around the table. The foyer led to the drawing room with an upright piano pushed against the wall. Carved mahogany wood, polished. White keys now a dark yellow like rotten teeth.

“The family should be here soon,” Albert said. “We should go.”

“Seems like you have a reason for not wanting to be here.”

In the drawing room a marble fireplace sat adjacent to the piano. Darrell rubbed his hands against the mantle, the dust collecting on his fingertips.

“Imagine the stories in these rooms.”

“I'd prefer not to,” Albert said.

Stood in the drawing room, admiring the doors to the bedroom. And though Darrell wanted to see inside the bedroom, the voice of his Father lingered. Everyone has secrets.

Walked toward the bedroom, but a loud click echoed from the entrance door. Perhaps the family had finally shown up.

Past the dusted mantle, past the cracked mirror, past the piano, past the open letters, a hint of sadness overcame Darrell as he followed Albert out of the room. Wondered who lived among these walls and what they cared about and who they loved. And he thought of his own father.

“The door is locked. It’s locked Darrell.”

“How?”

“Did you close it?

“No.”

“Can you open it again?”

“My tools are on the other side.”

Albert pulled the door handle. Eyes growing red and hands growing red, sweat pouring down his face.

“The family can let us out if necessary,” Darrell said.

But Albert continued to pull. Rammed his shoulder into the door.

“You don’t understand,” Albert said.

“They’ll be here soon,” Darrell said.

Albert pulled the table from the foyer. The notes and the letters flying away and the ink pens falling to the floor. Lifted the table, slamming its legs against the locked door.

Darrell backed away. Lifted the letters from the ground. Studied them. Reading them only to appreciate the beauty of the cursive. And like the chandelier in the lobby and mantle and the piano, the letter displayed an elegance worthy of the room in which they stood.

A thud from the bedroom, like heavy feet hitting the wooden floor. Darrell read a letter from the table. And behind the elegant cursive were words turning the air cold.

“Are you going to help me,” Albert said.

He continued to read, soaking in the words as sweat dripped down his face. His hands shaking.

The pounding growing louder. The sound of a door creaking open.

Continued to read the letters. Described a family vacation. A husband and wife and two daughters. Excited to see the City. Details of the restaurants and shops in which they visited. And at the end, a casual mention of the man’s wife coming down with an illness. 

“We need to leave,” Albert said. “Please help me.”

And though the pounding from the other room closed in, the letters transported Darrell. 

“What happened in this room?” Darrell said.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Albert said.

The letters now filled with delusion. The thoughts of an ill man. The cursive strained and though elegant, missing the neatness of the first letter. The wife’s illness proved fatal. And now it had infected the children. The doctors from the hotel overly positive with no evidence of recovery. The poor man left waiting for his children to heal in the shadow of their dead mother.

Desperation worn on Albert’s face. The legs of the table shattered against the door. Hands drenched in blood.

And for a moment, a sense of calm eluded Darrell, and he shared in fear of the man who had written those letters and he shared in the fear on Albert’s face.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Darrell pursed his lips. Keys pressed on the piano. A beautiful melody squeezed through the cold air. Gentle notes gliding into the foyer.

Albert grabbed a piece of broken wood from the floor, rubbing his fingers over the splintered wood. Looked a Darrell with failure and embarrassment growing on his face.

“I’m sorry Darrell,” Albert said.

“Why?”

“I should have been more upfront with you.”

“We can still get out of here.”

“I know what lives behind that door. There is no way out.”

“I can-”

“It’s no use Darrell,”

“Wait-”

Albert shoved the splintered wood into his neck. His eyes bulging. Hands shaking. The keys on the piano pounding and blood spilling onto the hardwood flood.

And Darrell felt alone. Alone like his father had left him. In the middle of a job, in an old house. Left in a locked room with a single pick. Locked by his own Father. Told Darrell to figure it out. And he remembered the cold air seeping through the wooden floor. The sun setting through the dusted window, the fear of shadows moving behind him.

Darrell removed the pick from his pocket. Hadn’t worked before perhaps it would work this time. He placed his ear to the door and waited for the click.

And as his hands started to work, the music from the piano stopped. The gentle melody replaced by excited footsteps in the drawing room. 

His hands worked as they had in the abandoned room years ago. Whispered to himself now as he whispered to himself then. There is nothing there. There is nothing there. There is nothing there.

Footsteps getting closer. And when they reached the foyer, the candles lit, burned brighter than any candle Darrell had ever seen. 

Worked the pick, waiting for the click. Pressed his ear further into the door. Every door can be opened.

Kept working the pick, but knowing it wouldn’t work because it hadn’t worked before why it would work this time? The room getting brighter. Slamming his head against the door. Gripping the handle. Throwing the pick away because he knew deep down it wouldn’t work and don’t turn around. Please don’t turn around.

A thud from the other side of the door. A gentle voice in the hallway. Darrell yelled, imagining his voice traveling down the quiet hallway. Shaking the handle.

“In here.”

“Welcome to the 30^th Street Hotel.”

“Get me out now. Please get me out,”

“My name is Maybin Davidson.”

Whispers filling the room. The blood from Albert’s neck spreading like puddles on Darrell’s legs.

“What lives in this room?” Darrell said.

 “Surely it’s nothing more than a rat or mouse.”

Don’t turn around Darrell. Don’t turn around. But the feeling of those gathering around him.

“Open this door.” Shook the handle, feeling as though he could pull it off the door. Slamming his shoulder against the wood.

“My family has a secret in this room that can never get out.”

“A family died in this room,” Darrell said.

“Precisely. And we couldn’t risk others finding out. Unfortunately, many guests got sick. We put them in that room as well. Perhaps it was our fault, but it’s our job to contain the situation isn’t it?”

“They are behind me, and they want out.”

Maybin laughed, and though Darrell couldn’t see her through the door, he envisioned an older woman with wrinkles on her face. White teeth and a gentle smile, like the portrait he had seen in the lobby. And a voice made of nightmares.

And though he didn’t look behind him, he heard footsteps and felt the presence of those wanting to leave the room as he did. Surrounding him, looking down. Darrell dug his face between the door and shoulder, creating a comfortable darkness. His voice nothing but a beggar’s cry.

“You’ll understand surely.”

“What?” Darrell said.

“Well, this door shouldn’t have been opened. It was a mistake but its been noted and the hotel will survive as it always does.”

“Get me out, please,” Darrell said.

“Well that can’t be arranged,” Maybin said.

She paused. And he hoped for a moment she might reconsider. There would be traces of him coming into the hotel. Guests would ask questions. But what happened of all the others who died in this room. Were any questions asked of them?”

“Accidents happen in hotels all the time,” Maybin said.

“What lives in here wants out,” Darrell said.

“I know,” Maybin said. “And it is unfortunate that you shall become like them.”

Darrell pulled at the door. Exhaustion overcoming him. The feeling of cold breath filling his body.

“We all have our secrets,” Maybin said. “Enjoy your stay with us.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and left, her footsteps echoing in the hallway like life itself fleeting in front of Darrell’s eyes. Not wanting to turn around, knowing behind him a crowd of those who once lived stood by the door, looking at him. He continued to pull at the door as tears fell from his eyes. Don’t turn around.

And he fell asleep. His face covered in Albert’s blood. His shirt drenched in sweat. His dreams taking him back to the old room where his father had left him. Knowing when he woke, he’d be the newest guest in room 3549.