Side Doors

The door was locked. Frank couldn't help but stare at it in the silent and dark hallway. The door’s texture was smooth beneath the vines covering it. He began to rip away the underbrush with his large hands, unveiling what lay beneath. “What?” He sat back on his haunches and gazed with astonishment. It was a red door. 

How was this possible? Yet, there it was. A beautiful door with carved swirls and decorations. “Such craftsmanship,” He thought to himself, “It must be Victorian.” Frank was good at breaking old skeleton key locks, a skill he learned back in Afghanistan when he was a field reporter in distress, hiding from militia groups. He decided to return to the house to get some tools.

Properly geared, Frank gets to work, moving his hands with precision. He hears the familiar sound of a small piece of metal snapping. Bingo! He turned the brass knob and gave it a pull. Nothing. The door seemed to resist, maybe stubborn due to disuse. He gave it another try, yanking harder, for despite his age, he was still a strong man. The door flew open unleashing a gust of cool air.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

Eventually, he could make out a tall, skinny man wearing suspenders, polishing glasses behind a bar. The man, indifferent to his arrival, didn’t even look up when he entered the room. Frank found he was in some sort of underground pub, very narrow, short ceiling, with a few tables scattered about. Soothing music was piped from overhead, and it had an immediate calming effect. 

As he went deeper into the room, the bartender acknowledged him with the standard, “What can I get you?”

Frank was caught off guard and managed to mumble, “Nothing, thank you.”

“Here,” the bartender said evenly as he placed what appeared to be a raw small potato on the counter before Frank. Confused by this strange offering, Frank graciously declined, “Uh..thank you, but I am OK.” 

“Take it, Traveler,” Came a strong masculine voice from a dim corner. “It can be of use to you.”

Frank turned towards the voice and at one of the tables he saw two identical men seated oddly beside each-other. Elegant figures were they, with their slicked hair and tailored suits complimented by their broad shoulders. Yet, all that was irrelevant when Frank noticed their golden skin, which glowed in the murky room. How had he missed seeing these singular people?

“Oh, hello,” Frank said, as he awkwardly waived in their direction.

“Hello, Traveler.” Said the first man, who appeared to be the more talkative of the two. He smiled reassuringly. “Are you lost?”

“Oh no, I am not a traveler,” Frank began to reply.

“He’s lost,” The second man said with a flat voice.

“I just opened a door and found myself in this place. For how long, is this pub here?”

“Since the beginning of time, Frank. But that is not really the right question, is it?”

“I am sorry. I don’t think I follow.”

“You see, that’s why you should take the potato,” The second fellow whispered.

“Traveler,” Said the talkative one. “It’s clear you don’t belong here.”

“I agree with that.” Said Frank disappointedly as he takes a few steps towards the door, noticing a poster on the wall of a dancing woman, floating. Long swaths of red fabric wrapped around her body flying by her side, suspended by the wind. There was a familiar quality to this woman, but before he could think further, the bartender roused him back from his daydreaming.

“Sir?” Ventured the bartender, handing Frank a small red pouch with the russet potato inside.

“Yes,” Frank said absently, “Thank you.” He was about to step away when he turned back, “Who is she?” He asked, gesturing back towards the wall, “The woman in the poster?”

“Leirum, the greatest performer of all time. A goddess of many talents. You are listening to her right now.” The bartender suddenly returned to the polishing of the glasses, and it was clear the conversation was over.

A strange feeling overcame Frank as he exited the pub. His pulse quickened as he thought back to the poster.  “But, no, that’s impossible.” It resembled his deceased daughter, Muriel. Yet, even as he denied his thoughts, his heartbeat continued to race. 

Shortly after closing the door behind himself, Frank decided that he needed to push his shyness away and clarify a few things with the strange pub folk. After all, they are at the edge of his property. “Do they have a license? Who goes there anyway?” He opens the door again, this time with the confidence of a righteous landlord.

“So you know, are you guys aware this is my property?” He stood still, looking uneasily about as his words reverberated back to him. Sharp smells immediately accosted his nose. Alcohol, herbs, perfume, and cigar smoke. Oddly, it was no longer the same place. He was in an exotic reception room. Colorful tapestries hung on the walls, and a fat green statue of a happy three-eye Buddha with hands lifted in dance smiled at him from the counter. 

He noticed another translucent door and saw shadows moving about behind it. He heard muffled voices, glasses clinking, and drunken laughter. A round of vigorous applause compelled him to push the door open, but he held himself back for a moment.  “Who are all those people? What kind of strange place was this?”

Beside him stood the short purple counter, which was empty except for a bell and the Buddha. An invitation. Ding!  Silence. He rang the bell three more times. Ding! Ding! Ding!  A tall, slender shape moved towards the glass door. It was hard to see. 

The glass doorknob moves as a woman steps forward. A woman, yes, for her body was that of a female, tall and shapely. But, for Frank’s alarm, her head favored a gazelle, and her spiky, little horns seemed a bit fierce. 

She wore an overused Victorian dress with a dirty apron. Holding a bucket, she asked, not unkindly, “What do you want, traveler?” Her voice came a little funny, almost like a goat.

Frank thought of explaining that he was not exactly a traveler but recalled how this exercise had done him little good just a few minutes ago. What exactly could this gazelle woman do for him? 

He worked to gather his thoughts when the gazelle lady spoke again. “The Inn is fully occupied. I am afraid we have no rooms. Perhaps the tavern interests you?”

Glancing over her shoulder, he turned to see a stage in the background. A woman in a red dress sang on the scene, and Frank wordlessly moved in her direction. He recognized her voice.

A stout little gnome of a man reached out an arm to stop Frank as he crossed the threshold. His arms only reached Frank’s knees, but he barked in a stern voice, “Whoa! Where do you think you’re going, Mister?”

“It’s only a traveler!” The gazelle lady leaves both alone.

“Sorry, Traveler. I am the Manager, and we have reached capacity today.”

“I understand.” Frank said, although, he did not. His eyes scanning the room again. He thought if perhaps he engages the little fellow in some conversation, he might be able to work his way in for a minute. “Would you mind telling me who that is?” Frank pointed to the stage.

“Don’t play games with me!” 

“Sorry, I don’t know what you mean?” Frank replied.

“Everyone knows, Lerium! You would have to be from another world, not to know who she is!”

“Well, I don’t,” Frank said. His sincere tone made the gnome pause, looking up at Frank as if seeing him for the first time.

“Wait, how did you get here?”.

“I … I just came from that door.” Frank pointed at the door behind him.

“Impossible!” Yelled, the Manager “Do you know why?”

“Why?” Frank was worried about what the answer might be.

“Because a 300-pound minotaur guards that door, and kills anyone who tries to trespass.”

Frank took a moment to process that piece of information and consider if it was better or worse news than he had anticipated. His thoughts were cut short when the gnome brandished a walking stick that became a long, sharp sword. In a quick gesture, the Manager rested the sword in its final position, pointing it directly toward Frank’s face, who could feel the cold metal pressing against his skin.

“Who are you, Traveler?” The short guy insisted.

“I am just, Frank. Frank Trevor. I live up the hill. This is part of my property.”

“Your property? Huh! You are nothing but a trespasser and a fool! You have made a serious mistake, Sir!” He warned, pushing him back under the threat of his sword. “I hate tourists, and you stink like one! You best get back to where you came from while you still can!”

Sensing that he was out of alternatives, Frank bowed his head and said, “Apologies.” A turn of the knob placed him back in the hallway. Heart racing, sweat hands, and a clear and lingering sensation of the blade on his skin were enough evidence that he was not going crazy. He was convinced, that the whole thing was real.

Frank walks the dark hallway leading to the main bunker exit door. Up in the hill, crossing a small patch of woods, he meets with a group of contractors who were busy finishing his brand new two-floor mountain cabin.

“So! Anything exciting down there?” Asked the construction supervisor, removing his helmet, revealing a sweaty bald head.

“Uh …” Frank was still in a dream-like state of mind. “It’s just an old dusty bunker filled with old magazines and newspapers.”

“Wanna me clear that up for you? It will not cost a single extra penny.” The supervisor winks at Frank.

“Nah, it's alright. I would like to go down there another day and take some time to look at the old publications. Maybe, who knows, I can find some lost treasure.”

“Right!” The sweaty bald man smiles. “I forgot you used to be a journalist and stuff.”

“Yeah …” Frank glances back down the hill, repeating the same words mechanically. “A journalist and stuff.”