The Locked Door

Nestled in the snow tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains near Bristol, Tennessee, a secluded luxury cabin beckoned Avana and Tom McLain to its three-story abode overlooking acres of timber. It was a steal of a deal, Avana told her husband when she discovered the rental on Vrbo’s website. But after delayed flights and a rental car mix-up in Knoxville, Avana had little patience left to rebuff the caretaker’s crankiness, a man clearly annoyed with the couple’s late arrival.

“Yeah,” muttered the white-bearded man, probably in his mid-60s. He spat through a gnarly gap in his top front teeth. Perhaps unwittingly. “Expected y’all a good bit earlier. What happened? Got lost?” The old man snickered. He reflected no interest in genuinely extending the arm of hospitality, not giving a flip about being a Welcome Wagon ambassador.

Avana held her breath for Tom’s reaction. Considering the day’s struggles, she would show no response if Tom escorted the caretaker, brusquely, to one of the cabin’s cedar doors. No reaction if Tom slammed it shut after shoving the grumpy old guy across the threshold. Instead, Tom said, “Seriously, dude. We’ve traveled hard all day. We’ve had no control over the flight reschedules. No idea it’d take hours to locate us a vehicle. What choice did we have? Know what I mean?” 

“Baby, we’re good now. Right?” Avana asked as she captured Tom’s eyes, hoping to slow this runaway train down. The two fed off each other’s positive and negative energies and stood ready to rescue one another from life’s gaffs. Anything from foot-in-mouth scenarios to ‘let’s boogie now’ escapes. 

“We’re good, babe. You and me.” Tom first pointed at Avana, then at himself. “Don’t know about this jack….”  

Avana stepped toward the caretaker and extended her hand. “Look, sir, even with the damn Google map, today has been a challenge. We’re not feeling much like it’s a vacation yet.” She introduced herself, Tom, then requested a quick tour because instead of a rambling one-story, as reserved, this cabin boasted two more stories of space. Much larger than expected, much more than desired. 

Looking more sheepish than peevish, the older man shook Avana’s hand. “Marc Potter.” 

“Mr. Potter, lovely to meet you. I must ask. Are you certain you’ve assigned us the correct cabin? This place is enormous. Likely to house three or four families,” she said. For a second, her mind drifted to the imaginary family she’d longed for but had failed to produce.  

Maybe within a few years, we could fill this cabin with kids. 

Avana considered petitioning for a switch to a smaller cabin, closer to the main road. One not so isolated, not so far up the mountain. Then she caught sight of Tom already shaking his head in disagreement, fully expecting her complaint, followed by its imminent inquiry. 

“We don’t need all this, Mr. Potter. This is not the cabin I reserved. It’s down-right creepy here.”

Desirous of the essentials to decompress, the couple longed for natural views to gaze upon for a few days, plenty of bourbon, and decent steaks to grill, along with a huge bed to linger in for Avana’s window of conceiving appeared to be decreasing dramatically with each passing month. 

“Oh, you’re in exactly the right place, ma’am. I never make a mistake like that. Wilson, the owner, told me to put you in his finest rental, where you’d enjoy listening to the crush of the waterfalls from the front porch. So, you and your husband could forget about your work worries.” Potter appeared less irritated compared to when they’d first arrived. Avana noted the man’s annoying habit of wiping his mouth with a dirty blue handkerchief. 

Tom overlooked the caretaker’s comment about their work worries. Instead, he asked, “So, no large families up here on the mountain…. at all?” 

The caretaker looked down at his feet while adjusting the bill on his worn Cincinnati Reds ball cap. When he replaced it, Potter wore it low in the front, just above his eyebrows. He said, “There ain’t nobody but you two up here for ‘least a couple of weeks. Kids are back in school after the holiday, don’t you know? Then, ‘course, there’s me.” Potter’s smile was more prominent this time, decreasing the spit he shared.   

“Jesus, we’re off to a spectacular start,” Tom muttered. “Lead the way to the main suite, Potter, and then we’ll sort it from there.” He grabbed the two good-sized suitcases and left Avana’s carry-on and handbag for her to arrange. He knew better than to move his wife’s designer bags before she’d decided how best to settle in. 

“This way,” the caretaker said. He surprised both guests when he turned away from the great room with a cracklin’ fire roaring in its grate. Instead, Potter held onto the oak banister as he took the first step to the cabin’s lower level.  

“The master’s down here? Why on earth?” Avana asked. Everything was off. As issues came to light, Avana added another. She wanted to run. Just grab their suitcases and race to the car. They’d figure out the rest on the journey down the mountainside. 

Tom would kill me: $2,000 bucks down the toilet because I sensed something wasn’t right. I’ve gotta push against these feelings. 

“The first level is the master, ma’am. You’ve got two fireplaces, California king, en-suite, media room, library, hot tub. You name it. The master has it.” Potter spoke with pride, usually reserved for an owner or a leasing agent. 

“Let’s not quibble, Avana,” Tom said, following his wife and the caretaker. “We need a hot shower, a tall glass of Tennessee bourbon, and something to eat.” After placing the suitcases near the walk-in closet, he gave the massive space a quick once-over, then turned to Potter. “You did see about the groceries we requested, right?” 

“Of course, sir. Everything should be to your liking. If not, I can make another run. And more, while you’re here. My number’s in the confirmation e-mail, along with the Wifi password.”

While Tom talked with Potter, Avana wandered around the first level. Despite the dread that crept between her shoulder blades, she felt more secure with the ceiling-to-floor draperies that covered the wall of windows running the length of the cabin. On her first pass along the hallway behind the main suite, Avana discovered a cedar sauna and a laundry room but didn’t notice the oversized double doors. But when she retraced her steps, following Tom’s and Potter’s voices, Avana immediately spotted the locked doors. She tried turning the knobs and discovered neither one offered the slightest bit of movement. 

These aren’t decorative doors. Are they made of steel? 

Tom disliked Potter’s suggestion of retrieving an email for contact information. “Man, don’t make this difficult,” Tom said, reaching in his pocket for his phone. “I’ll text your number, and then you’ll have mine. We’re alone up here, nearly hanging off the side of a mountain, a thousand miles from home. I need a number to call if we need help.” 

“Okay, okay,” Potter stammered. “Of course. 423-895….” By now, it was impossible for him to ignore Avana’s vigorous attempts to open the locked space.  

Potter hustled away from Tom while still reciting his phone number. “No… no, ma’am,” Potter said. “That’s closed off for a reason. Owner wants no one going in there.”

“What’s in there?” 

“Why you gotta know that?” 

“Simple question. I need to know what’s locked away in a space several feet away from where I’m placing my head tonight. Don’t think it’s too much to ask.”  

“I can’t help you with that, Mrs. McLain. I’ll call Wilson. You can talk to him yourself.” 

“Hmm…. I may need to do that.” 

Avana walked back into the suite to confirm her suspicion. The locked area appeared to jut against the wall where the upholstered headboard of the California king hung with precision. Avana considered the endless suspense novels she’d read over the years: the stories about murderers who watched potential victims sleep from a hidden crawl space behind their bedrooms. Before going for the kill. After quickly examining the headboard and the reading lights hoisted above, Avana found no trace of cameras or recording devices. Still, there was no accounting for the ominous feeling she couldn’t shake. Avana’s clairsentience binged straight off the charts.

“This is unacceptable, Mr. Potter,” she said, her boots tapping into a rich rhythmic sound as she retraced her steps along the hallway, back to the locked doors. “We’re simply not staying here unless you explain what’s inside this space. Is it the media room? That’s where the owner doesn’t want us?” Avana asked, hands at her hips, jaw jutted slightly forward. Eyes enlarged, fiery, waiting for the caretaker’s response. 

“He’s not budging, Avana, and I’m tired of this game of yours. Where do you propose to sleep tonight, babe?” Tom asked. He’d long since grown weary of his wife’s compulsion to identify the potential for evil intention at every turn. “I’m not sleeping in the vehicle that took us hours to lease. I’ll drive back to Louisiana before doing that.” 

Avana shook her head and drew her long black locks into an imaginary ponytail before releasing them. Was the mere movement of her head designed to dismiss both men’s lack of a suitable response? 

“Open these doors, please, Mr. Potter,” Avana said. “I’m very stressed right now.” She feared an imminent panic attack yet resolved to stay in control. 

With his arms crossed and his back flattened against the locked doors, Potter said, “I’m not losing my job over this, ma’am. Wilson has the key. I couldn’t open these doors even if I wanted to.” 

“I’ve had enough,” Tom said. He turned on his right heel and headed back to the staircase. “I’m pouring myself a three-finger bourbon. Any takers? Potter, how ‘bout you?” 

“No, thank you, sir. Don’t drink until my job’s finished.” 

Avana rolled her eyes, incensed that the caretaker failed to succumb to her demands. “I’ll drink about half of what you’re pouring for yourself, Tom,” she said.

Once her husband was out of earshot, Avana inched closer to Potter and whispered, “Honey, what’s it gonna take for you to man-up, open these goddamn doors? You expect me to believe that you never break Wilson’s rules? I’m not buying that for a minute.” 

The caretaker slipped his phone from his back jeans pocket and located Wilson’s contact with one swift move. Potter’s fingertip tapped the call icon as Avana’s lips remained uncomfortably close to his mouth. Potter’s clenched jaw reflected the evening’s downward spiral. 

When Avana heard glass crashing on the other side of the locked doors, she screamed for Tom. But he didn’t react. Tom had already turned up the volume on SiriusXM’s classic jazz channel. Perhaps the spirited rendition of “Mardi Gras Mambo” or the overactive ice machine prevented him from recognizing his wife’s frantic pleas for help. Or perhaps he’d become so accustomed to Avana’s overreactions that he intuitively dismissed any cries for help as soon as her shrill scream hit two octaves above her natural speaking voice.  

However, Tom noticed the vibration of his cell phone on the granite counter when the festive song ended. Though he didn’t know the number, he recognized Bristol’s area code. 

“Yes, hello?” Tom said. 

“Wilson, here. The cabin’s owner? I understand your wife has a question for me.” 

“Does she? Sorry, know nothing about that. When I left her downstairs, she and Potter were still bickering. By the way, your man is a stand-up gatekeeper. Seriously, I don’t know where you found him, but he’s doing one helluva job for you.”

By now, Tom had progressed to his second three-finger bourbon. 

“Put your wife on the phone,” Wilson demanded. 

“Hold on, then, I’ve got to… gotta run… back down to the lower level,” Tom said, racing for the stairs, yelling for Avana to meet him halfway. 

When Tom reached the bottom step, he realized all the lights had dimmed. A dramatic difference from the LED blaze of glory he’d left behind twenty minutes ago. Only the glow from the gas fireplace in the master provided any significant light source. 

“Avana? Where are ‘ya, love?” Tom asked as he wandered into the bedroom, assuming she’d resolved her issues with Potter. When he turned, expecting to see Avana tucked under the bed’s down duvet, he found Potter relaxing in a recliner, directly facing the fireplace. 

Potter looked up. “Oh, I see you brought me that drink, after all. Thank you very much.” 

“Where’s my wife?” Tom yelled. 

“Avana’s with me, now,” Wilson answered. Was the cabin’s owner still connected to the other end of the call? 

Tom stared at his phone as though the device was completely unrecognizable. A foreign object. His vision blurred, Tom struggled to determine where his hand ended, and the phone - still clasped in his shaking hand - began. He felt faint and grabbed the back of a wingback chair, positioned next to where the caretaker sat, sipping his bourbon.  

Potter crunched an ice cube. “Yeah, your wife kept demanding to see what was behind ‘dem locked doors. She’s a persistent one. I’ll give ‘ya that. Well, she got what she wanted. Only thing is, Ms. Avana ain’t coming back.” 

Tom fell back onto the chair. “You had me going for a while, Wilson. That is until you slipped out of your country-boy dialect and spoke like an intelligent man.”

“I gotta say, Tom. You make one helluva bourbon ‘n branch. Love to have another one if you’re going back upstairs.” 

 Tom’s death stare didn’t faze Potter one bit. 

 “I mean, you did offer. Right?”