The Locked Door

My name is Zigfried Zanmori.  Besides the cumbersome name I have lived with all my life, I was now standing in front of a locked door.  I have no idea of where the key is or what secrets lie inside of the vault behind the large iron door. 

I’ve been warned that there are certain doors and portals that are better left locked.  Pandora’s Box flashes through my mind, but my curiosity is a much stronger impulse at this moment in my life. 

This house belonged to my grandfather Zarkoff Zanmori who was as eccentric as eccentric could be.  Sitting in the parlor of the grand Victorian home, he would tell elaborate stories of his adventures at sea.  Now landlocked inside this mausoleum of a house, he longed to return to the adventures described by Melville. He kept the wanderlust that once filled his heart content with the love for Zelda, his wife of thirty years.  

“Ah lad, behind this iron door lies the essence of life itself.” He would claim as he waved his cane into the air as it was a wing that could take him skyward. 

 Known in the community as the Mad Russian, he would often rave and rage about injustices that befell him as a much younger man. Some of these injustices drove him to become a merchant marine sailor including the Bolshevik Revolution which was enough to make him leave his home and come to America with his young bride, my grandmother Zelda.    

Grandma Zelda would sit me down with freshly baked cookies and whisper to me, “Pay no attention to him, Ziggy.  He left Russia as an angry man.”

“Why was he angry, grandma?” I asked.

“Many reasons…many reasons.” She patted me on the cheek as she shook her head. “He is a proud man who was made to feel like a failure.”

She passed away when I was in college.  She had once been in high society in St. Petersburg before the Revolution.  I learned early never to say that word, revolution, when in his presence or else suffer the rage that would last for hours.  His face would become scarlet red as he raved about the Czar this and the Bolsheviks that had robbed him of his home in Mother Russia.

He passed away three weeks ago after I became a junior vice president at Siskel Finance Group. I am Forty two, married to Zia twelve years ago.  We have three children, Zane, Zuma, and Zamara.  

After his funeral, I was notified that I was his executor of his estate.  That is how I came to be standing in front of his locked door to his vault in his study on the second floor I discovered on a walk-through inspection.  I have no intention of keeping this house as it will be lucky to pass the inspection.  I doubt there was anything of value inside, but I needed a way to open the door. I had found a professional locksmith who could open this vault, named Zyman Zitherman.  

“Mr. Zanmori, it will take me about an hour to crack this door.” He said with a well-chewed toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth.  He peered at the door through his one open eye.  He put his finger on the tumbler and nodded.  

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

He looked at me through his other open eye as if I was telling a joke, shook his head and said, “No Mr. Zanmori.”  

As he began to work at opening the door, I went downstairs and contacted the lawyer Zenny Zwelliger.

“Ziggy, what can I do for you?” I could hear his voice practically sing my name.

“Mr. Zwelliger, what do I need to do to put his house on the market?” I asked as I ran my finger over the dust on the kitchen table.  

“Ziggy, Ziggy, why are you in such a hurry to unload that wonderful two story Victorian?” I could hear him put his feet on his desk in his corner office surrounded by windows on the twentieth floor of the Zemire Tower.

“My grandfather has passed away.” I said with emphasis.

“Yes, I am aware of that.” He chuckled. “This is one heck of a house.  You could rent it out.” 

I paused.  In our first phone call, I explained why I was not interested in renting or anything else to do with that house.

I heard a scream from upstairs.  

“I do not want to-” I paused, “Could you excuse me.” 

“What’s the matter?” Zenny asked.

“I heard something…from upstairs.” I turned to the stairs wondering what had happened. 

“I hope it’s not a broken pipe.” Zenny said without a hint of concern in his voice.  I pressed the button and Zenny Zwilliger went away. I was upstairs as quickly as I could get there.  

What I saw or didn’t see chilled me to the bone.  The door was still in place, but the locksmith Zyman had completely vanished. I was pretty sure he was the one who had screamed, but he was not there to ask him why he had screamed.  

I put my hand on the handle and it moved easily as the door groaned open.  The room was instantly clouded with a thick smoke smelling of sulfur something like brimstone. A shrill laugh cut through the odiferous fog.

Then he appeared still laughing as he stepped through the smoke.

To say he was dapper and suave would not do justice to his impeccable grooming and attire.  His eyes were as black as coal with no white showing.  His van Dyke beard was trimmed evenly and his skin was smooth and flawless.

“Good evening, Ziggy.” He tilted his head to one side as if he was studying me.

“How did you know my name?” I asked, still in awe of his sudden presence. 

“I am in the business of knowing names.” He threw his head back and laughed from deep down. “I am Mephistopheles.”

He handed me a business card that felt quite warm.  There were several names listed.

“I do go by a lot of different names as you can see by my business card.” He pointed and it was then I noticed that his fingernails were pointed and painted black.  I glanced back at his card and saw “Satan” printed at the bottom of the list. “Once your grandfather met me.  He was a devout church-goer, so naturally I was drawn to him, because he had a dark side.  I find that irresistible.”

I did not know what to say as he circled me like a shark about to attack. 

“He was worth every minute I spent with him.  I told him that names beginning with Z were unreadable to us devils and the fool believed me.” He laughed again with the same zest he had before, “It is so easy to manipulate humans.  Take Judas Iscariot, another church-goer, but when I got done with him, I made him the poster child of evil and betrayal.  He did love Jesus and I had him convinced that he was doing Jesus a favor by betraying him for thirty pieces of silver. It is what I am good at and why I am here.” 

“Why are you here?” I asked with some trepidation.

“Because that door has been sealed for too long.  It’s time I came out and had some fun in this house again.” He laughed.  Apparently he found me quite amusing. “When this house was built, one of the men had murdered one of his coworkers.  Ah don’t tell me that thought has never crossed your mind.”

It had.  He knew.  My assistant Maya Myers had pointed out a discrepancy in the ledgers where I had been embezzling some funds from an account.  No one would notice, but Maya was an expert with numbers and spotted it right away.

“Someone should be notified.” She told me with her finger on the line where the money did not add up.  At that moment, I began to plot her demise. It would look like an accident.

“So when I told Zarkoff about those Z’s, he believed me instantly and you can thank me for your name, Ziggy.” He brushed off some lint on my shoulder.  His touch was cold and sobering, but when he smiled with a mouth that seemed to house over one hundred white teeth, I began to feel sick to my stomach. “I also told him to build this vault so he could keep me locked up.”

“Why did you want to be locked up?” I asked, feeling my knees knocking together.

“So he would think that he could control me.” He shrugged. “Trouble was, it was me who was controlling things, but I let him live with the illusion that he was in charge.”

He examined the door.  It was nearly three feet thick.  It was the thickest door I had ever seen.

“But he poisoned his partner Sidney Paper when he discovered that Zarkoff was pocketing the employee pensions.  Many employees who were within a year of receiving their pensions died under mysterious circumstances.  Seems he knew a man who would make people disappear.  His name is Gino and he is one of mine now.” 

“What do you want from me?” I managed to ask as he completed another revolution around me as he paced. 

“I thought that was obvious.” He put his finger under my chin and smiled, “I want your mortal soul.” 

“What if I won’t let you have it?” 

“Ah, just like the grandfather and the father.  Must be genetic.” He nodded.

“Father?  What happened to my father?  He was as honest as the day was long.” I protest.

“Zacharias?  How well did you really know him?” He smiled.  Say what you will about his evilness, his clothes and shoes were all tailored perfectly.  Wearing a black jacket that fit like a second skin and patten leather shoes that appeared top of the class, he wore his charm like a suit of armor.  I felt as though he was setting a trap for me to snare my soul.  He had gone after Jesus after all and made Him some very tempting offers that Jesus ended up turning down, but it proved that he was not afraid of going after even the unreachable fruit.  Compared to that, I was nothing more than small pickings.

My father Zach was a politician by trade and well-liked in the community as he served for over twenty years on the city board before elevating to state office.  I had heard about political alliances dad managed to form, but I had no clue as to some of the backroom maneuvering he had done in order to attain what he wanted to achieve. 

“You father was backed by his father Zarkoff in order to avoid local taxes. It all worked very well even if it was not on the level.” He put his foot on a chair near grandpa’s desk. “So many corrupt dealings were done on this desk. I did not have to work hard. It all fell into my hands, if you know what I mean.” 

I did and I did not like it.  People are fallible, but forgiveness is a quality that is often disregarded.  I had done things that could be considered unethical, but I had assumed that forgiveness would be applied so I would not disappear under the waves.  He had both grandpa and dad.  He was proud of it as he opened the drawers of grandpa’s desk. 

“Hey kid, if you are thinking about getting me back in that vault, you’d better rethink things over.” His laugh did not seem jovial in the least. As he spoke, he wandered over near the opening.  The door hung open on iron hinges, but it was too heavy to move without an adequate force.  

There are doors that should remain locked and left alone.

How I wished I had thought of that before I hired  Zyman Zitherman.  I did not even need to hire Zyman, I could have hired someone named Bob or Pete.  All my life, dad and grandpa told me that I needed to associate with people whose names begin with Z. I bought that for my entire life, but now I find out the whole thing was a ruse, at least according to this guy.  And he was not trustworthy by any measure.   

What else did I learn was a ruse?  It seems that the truth is very malleable at times and history is not always based on absolutes or hard solid facts.  Perspective can determine how a story is told.  If I were to base my story on this guy, that story would be skewed and biased.  I wondered how many times my beliefs were based on someone else’s version.  Both dad and grandpa filled my head with stories about our family that I was finding out just wasn’t as accurate as I once believed just like Santa Claus.  My mother Zalinda was good about making him seem so real until one day in school, one of my schoolmates explained the facts of life as he knew them.  Granted his summation of the facts lacked a lot of truths I would later add to my understanding of the world, but his verification that Santa was nothing more than a myth made me realize honesty was a slippery slope.   

“Ziggy!” I heard a familiar voice yell.  It echoed through the open door.  Suddenly he appeared, my grandpa Zarkoff Zanmori looking very much alive.  He turned his head around 180 degrees to see grandpa standing defiantly in the doorway.

“Zarkoff, get back.  You are mine.” His light mood suddenly became much heavier.  His face was no longer calm and at ease.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” He pointed his finger at the devil.  Suddenly my father appeared at his side.  

“Zacharias, you get back too.” The Devil warned, waving his finger at the pair of them.  

I missed my dad.  He had died in an automobile accident after winning a seat in the state senate. There was a lot of discussion about if it was really an accident or not.  Mom married Ken Barkley, one of his rivals, about four months after his funeral.  I haven’t talked to her since then.  

“What are you doing?” His voice became nothing but a deep threatening growl. 

“Oh look, hot head is getting mad.” Grandpa laughs. 

“You know better than to call me that!” He stomped his foot and sparks flew all about. 

“You told me that if I did what you said, I’d be president one day.” Dad pointed his finger at him as he continued to stomp his foot. 

“How dare you.” He snarled as he stalked toward the pair who were now laughing at his ridiculous behavior.

He was standing near them threateningly.  I was afraid of what he would do to them until my dad waved to me, “Ziggy! Rush him!”

The Devil turned as I came running at him with both hands out.  Before he could move either way, I hit him in the chest, knocking him through the doorway.  My blow had knocked him down.  Grandpa grabbed him by his fancy jacket and pulled him into the portal.  Once he started screaming at my grandpa and dad, I seized the handle of the door and with everything I had, I forced the door closed before he could get to his feet and escape.  The door slammed with a deafening thud.  Twirling the dial, I could feel it click and lock.  Once again the vault was secure.  I felt sorry for Zyman, the locksmith who had been caught in the middle. Though I did not not know Zyman’s past, I really did not think he deserved what he got.  I heard a groan.  When I turned around, I saw Zyman sitting in the desk chair where the Devil had used as a footrest.  One of the two of them had managed to get him pushed out of the vault.  

“What happened?” He asked, blinking.

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.” I said, helping him to his feet. 

“Ziggy, it’s me.” Zenny walked in wearing one of his designer suits.

“What’s up?” I braced Zyman from losing his precarious footing. 

“Man, I feel like I’ve been through Hell.” Zyman moaned.

“You have no idea how accurate you are.” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. 

“So what decision have you made about this house?” Zenny asked, adjusting his tie.  

“Still haven’t made up my mind.” I shrugged as I struggled keeping Zyman on his feet. 

I lied.  I had made up my mind.  Once Zenny and Zyman had left, I went to the basement where grandpa had several cans of gasoline stored.  I poured all the cans empty over the entire house including on the sidewalk where I could light it without being inside the house.  Striking a wooden match, I watched the trail of flames go inside the house.  As I walked away I could see the flames reflect in the windows. I would see the whole story on the late evening news.  The reporter was standing in front of the house which was just a blackened frame. It was all that was left standing and seeing it, made me smile.  

“Hey Ziggy, tough break on the house.” Zenny’s melancholy voice was in my ear a few minutes later.

“It’s alright.” I smiled. I hadn't told him I had legally changed my name to James.

My delight, however, would be short lived as I would find out later that the vault had survived and the door was found wide open.