Chapter 19
HIDDEN DOORS
It feels as if a boulder lay on top of my head the next morning.
Drinking always comes with a bit of regret and a long road to recovery.
I refuse to get out of bed for most of the day, and can only muster up enough energy to have a glass of water and a small piece of toast. Afterward, I promptly crawl back, disappearing beneath the mass of cloud-like cover.
The next time I wake up, the phone is ringing, and the sun is slowly making its descent on the other side of the sky.
Reluctantly, I pull myself out of bed to make my way downstairs.
My legs like lead posts behind me, not quite able to catch up to the rest of my body.
As my luck has it, the phone stops ringing just as I make it all the way to the bottom of the stairs.
Conversation wouldn’t come easily for me right now, anyway.
Thankful for the sleep-filled day, I decide to make a snack plate of cheese and apples and go to sit in the library.
I curl my legs up beside me, feeling a little more myself and looking every bit like the lazy cat that should be curled up with me.
However, I didn’t hear her cry for food all day, nor did she lay with me in bed as I slept.
I call for her, waiting for her assured reply, but hear no pitter-patter of paws. Carya is always within a stone’s throw away from me. This silence irks me.
I slip on my house shoes and check every door, hoping she didn’t get locked in one of the estate’s many rooms. No luck. But then I remember, there was one door that was left open for some of the evening last night.
The basement door is definitely closed when I approach it, while an anxious energy finds the center of my chest. Thoughts of Carya being locked in that dark, damp cold basement make guilt wiggle its way to the pit of my gut.
I open the door and peer down the long, gloomy stairwell.
A musty gust of air wraps around me as I peer into the cobweb-filled stairwell.
“Carya!” I yell, but nothing. “Carya!” Still nothing.
The basement’s cold concrete walls swallow the echo I hoped to hear. I’m about to turn around, but that guilt tugs at my conscience, leaving me no choice but to take a step down hesitantly. It can’t be that bad, thinking how I just did this last night. The only difference is now I’m on my own.
I make it to the bottom, and a flicker of something catches my eye toward the back. It must be Carya. I grab the candle sconce and light it, thankful that I forgot my Bic down here last night. Steadily, I make my way toward the back room that seems to go on forever.
My steps swoosh against the cold, hard floor in my thick, muted pink slipper socks. It is the only sound I hear, and it lingers in the air far longer than I’d like.
It gets colder as I get closer, and I wrap my arms around my shoulders. Partly to make myself warmer, and partly because I am terrified of what I’ll find as I move toward the large entry. The same one that Que stole me away from uncovering last night.
I make my way to the frame of the room, but find no glimpse of Carya. Instead, what I find is even more perplexing. Two large wooden doors encased in earth and ivy buried within the back walls.
How ivy grows down in this dark abyss makes no sense, but I see it clear as day, deep and green. The doors are trunk-like, covered in dense, twisting roots—barely recognizable as doors at all. The only way to make out their shape is by the glow they emit from behind.
One holds a moonlight fuzz around it, flaring mixes of iridescent hues, while the other holds a deep blue-green glow that shines fiercely like the sea against the morning sun.
I can almost feel the energy that each is emitting against my skin.
Both feel completely different from one another as I place my hand against the rough bark of them.
Both feel well known in a place deep down in my chest.
I work to tear some of the moss-covered roots off of the doors.
Most of the roots fall away with ease, but there are some stubborn bits that refuse to budge beneath my ravage.
The door with the green aura is home to the ones that are the most stubborn.
I give up ripping out the resistant bits that remain and wipe my hands against my sweatpants.
My mind is swimming with what could be behind these doors. They could lead to another world for all I know. Or based on the sheer amount of alcohol in this place, perhaps they open up to an old hidden speakeasy.
Judging by how far I walked to reach them, I’m probably beneath the far side of the property. But why would the basement be that large? And how am I not swimming in water right now? Basements in this part of Louisiana are near impossible to exist, so why is this one here and thriving?
Que was right. This is a curious house, and this basement is the most perplexing of the lot.
I lean in, putting my ear against the green glowing door, listening for a hint of something, anything.
But all I can hear is the deep whirring of its energy.
And while my ears find nothing, my fingers discover something instead.
I step back to inspect a tiny circular indentation carved into the wooden door.
Someone placed a tiny stone within the circular groove.
The same color stone that matches that of my mother’s jade willow tree.
Which means it also matches the ring I found within that broken tree that is now tucked away safely at the bottom of a drawer in my room upstairs. The ring, my mind echoes.
My eyes widen with realization. I all but race for the stairs, fumbling on my feet as I do, and make my way to the main stairwell that lead to my room.
Finding the ring right where I knew it would be, I dash back to the basement and the two very eerie doors that wait for me.
I have all but forgotten my nerves about this part of the house, feeling only desperate excitement at the discovery at hand.
I step closer to the green door. My fingers almost dropping the ring within the darkness of the basement floor. Somehow I keep it in my grasp, and stick the ring inside the round indent.
With the placement of the ring in the circle, the roots react, but not in the way I wish. They become thicker, longer, growing to encase the door even more. Whatever is within doesn’t want me to discover it.
I also notice a new faint light around the door buzzing to be seen.
The closer I look, I see there is an inscription framing the edges, but I cannot make out the language.
I am well read, having to be so with all my work on antique history.
But in all my research of places I have been, I have never seen a language written like this.
I look for a knob or anything I might turn to grab leverage on the door. A way to pry it open, but there is nothing. With the now thicker barricade around the green one, I do not know what steps to take next. The secret words continue to flicker like a curse.
I keep trying to look for another way in, but ultimately I am defeated.
My excitement wanes to the lowest low. With reluctance, I walk back to the stairway, toying with the ring between my fingers, trying to wrap my head around the connection the ring has to the door and the strange glow it holds within.
Something on the ring pokes me, and I suck my breath inward in the form of a small gasp. I look closely at the ring, and notice something I had not before. The ring has tiny thorns inlaid in it.
They are so small. Unnoticeable at first glance, but that tiny prick was enough to let a minuscule drop of blood spill from my throbbing finger and land on the basement floor.
Building in a strange luminescence of its own before vanishing into the concrete floor—a not-so-subtle hint of what my future here holds.