I could tell you how long I’ve been here if I thought long enough about it, but after thinking as long as I have, the exact number grows less and less significant. All that matters is that it has been a very long time.



I used to ride my small bicycle by this place as a child. I would call it a house, but in reality it is much more than that. A palace perhaps? Mansion? Estate? Castle? I suppose I could simply tell you that it is a very large residence with seemingly no caretakers; can you see why a child such as I, who had to pass by this place every day, would be intrigued? The rusted gate and large oak trees all sagged under the weight of age, but looked to me as a playground guarded by stately soldiers lining a golden walkway to a place that rose out of the mists of perfection. I could be a king there.



The exact age that I found myself strolling up the lengthy lane that was beyond the rusty gate is also of no consequence – all that matters is that I did walk up the lane. I remember it being a very warm day sometime in the fall, and the leaves from the giant oak trees made a pleasant crunching sound as I curiously surveyed my surroundings. Large black birds seemed to watch my every move. Their incessant peering grew more disturbing with time.



From the road the house was large, but when I stood at the foot of it looking up toward its stretching spires, it became monstrous. Without even having to pass through the heavily aged door I was engulfed, for every way I looked all I could see was brick and mortar broken only by leafy ivy that parasitically forced its way into the crevices, slowly chipping away at the life of the house. The only sound I heard as I reached toward the doorknob was drafts being pulled in by some unseen force and coursing through the cavernous hallways. An eerie sound that was - like breathing.



The doorknob was rusty and I could feel the corrosion in my hand, but with a little effort, it turned. There was a soft click followed by a rousing whoosh as trapped air escaped and the door swung open far enough for my anticipation to grow. As I entered I was greeted by a large vestibule decorated by flowing tapestries whose colors had been dimmed with dust. I promised myself that once I was done exploring I would return here and give them a thorough cleaning, but I never did return. I got lost. And in all the time I’ve been in here, I have yet to find that room again – have yet to find the way out.



Logic would dictate that the house was just larger than my boy’s mind originally conjectured, but I am no longer a boy, and all conjectures regarding the nature of the house are now irrelevant, for even still I am unsure of exactly where I am.



That first hour alone with the grand staircases and rooms that spoke of royalty was indeed a childhood fantasy come to life, and I still recall my footsteps and boyish chuckles as they echoed throughout the halls. If I listen closely, I can still hear them echo now, for they have echoed eternally, although they have grown ghostly faint. The cries for help are still echoing too, and sound even more menacing mingled with the boyish laughter.



It didn’t take long for the demeanor of the house to overwhelm me with fear, especially as the sun began to set and the moonlight spilled through the faint curtains. This seemed to cause a domino effect of spilling shadows that quivered with a sense of life. It was a coat-of-arms that first caught the fierceness of my reaction to the horrific scene, and the resulting scream became the first ghastly echo to plague me since. As I ran from it frightened, I buried myself deeper into this maze. It was then that I found the door.



My feet were bearing heavily on the floor as I ran from room to room. Once fear has a hold in your mind everything seems to be a looming enemy. Bedposts and bodices, broomsticks and nightstands, all drove me to run faster, deeper. Rooms turned to hallways, then to stairwells and hidden passages. I reached for the doorknob in front of me and, in my haste, knocked my head harshly into the wood – for the door did not budge.



I woke up hours later when the sun had pushed the shadows back far enough to enlighten my face. I lay on the floor, at the end of a corridor, right at the base of the door. When I regained my footing I tried, this time much more carefully, to turn the ancient knob. Locked. I had not seen a door like this except in antique shops and cartoons. The handle was oval, intricately fashioned with running designs throughout. The keyhole was one which could be seen through, although as my youthful eye pressed against it, all I could see was black.



No other door in the house had been locked. Even now, my young self gone, I have yet to discover another locked door. Naturally, this object has weighed significantly on my mind for some time. And besides the fact the door was locked, it seems to be the only place in the house remains familiar to me, for no matter which direction I take, it always leads to that door!



Funny, you think. Perhaps it is different doors that all look the same and are all locked, you think. You wonder how I can claim there is no other locked door in the home, and yet having been so lost for so long and never having found an unlocked door more than once you question the validity of my statement. Do you honestly believe that in all these years I have not attempted to mark my path? I know it is the same door because even today there is a slight stain where my battered head spilled blood!



Pawsh! Here I am pretending there is a you when I don’t even know who you are. I don’t even know if this parchment will be read, or if you will have the same thoughts I imagine you having! Surely it is easier for me to pretend to have a conversation with myself and address my own concerns, for I’m certain that I will be lost to misunderstanding. If there is a you and by some miracle you are envisioning my story, rest assured that I am not crazy. At least, I wasn’t when I entered this house. If I have gone mad since that time, it is certainly not from loneliness, but from an unexplained desire to get into that damned room!



Having been trapped here, my mind began to fathom exactly what could be behind that door. An exit, perhaps? Oh, if it were only an exit. Just to see the sun plain, without the dyes of unbreakable stained glass, would be glorious. But I’m certain that whatever lies beyond the shadows of that door will be more glorious still, for it is that door that holds all glory and wisdom. Hunger, nor thirst, nor any earthly or heavenly desire for anything or anyone could compare to my lust for whatever was behind the door.



It was during on of these fits, while I sat in front of the door contemplating the wondrous things the room beyond must contain, that I discovered the mirror. I had spent days sitting cross legged in the hallway that led to the door, staring, no willing the door to be opened to me. Finally, when my eyes were fatigued enough for sleep I set off in search of a bedroom, knowing full well that as soon as I had rested I would return, to sit again at the foot of the door and marvel at its magnificence. But this day, as I turned, my eye caught movement. I had not seen movement in so long that the faint flicker sent chills down my spine, and I spun around to catch nothing more than a view of myself. The mirror sat opposite the door, was ornate, and oval just like the doorknob.



It was odd, to see myself staring back at me. I did not recognize myself because of the years that had passed, and could only be certain another man didn’t stand by my side obscuring my boyish reflection because as I moved, so did the figure. The years had been kind to me, I thought, for the roundness in my childhood cheeks had been pulled back and flattened by a stately jaw line, but my eyes were round and gentle, though blackened and set with exhaustion. All this time I had been so obsessed with the door that I had not taken notice to the fact that I was naked. As I processed my image in the mirror my mind returned to the clothes of my youth… and of course those which I wore upon entering the house wouldn’t have fit for long.



I saw myself, and was intrigued. I studied the round firmness of my chest and the bluish veins seemingly colored onto my arms. My sleek midsection flexed in harmony as I twisted, and I became fascinated by every small muscle that I could see contracting. The hair on my head, though unkempt, was the color of cherry wood that had been charred by fire, and my leg muscles trembled violently when I stamped my feet upon the floor.



I held up my hands and studied the palms, tracing the indented lines with my fingers, only to study them again with the help of the mirror’s reflection. My ruby lips, the color of blood against my pale skin, were pulled over my white teeth in a broad smile. I realized the smile came from the sensation I got as I moved my fingertips softly along my bare skin. Oh, the sensation that is touch! I wanted to feel every inch of myself!



I looked deep into my own dark eyes, and though I could see a light shining from within the darkened pupils. It was that moment that I saw who I was. To see yourself, truly for the first time, having lived in oblivion for so long, focused solely on a door…



I gasped. I almost felt guilty. For in the moment I discovered myself I forgot almost completely about the door.



I saw my eyes flicker toward the door in the mirror’s reflection, and was filled with a dizzying sensation that a person such as yourself would probably know as joy. There, in the mirror’s deep reflection, was the door… standing open.



My eyes burned and turned weepy as I let out a breath of air I don’t remember inhaling. My feet were already running toward the door, though my eyes still stared unbelieving at the reflection. My head turned toward the way I was running, toward the door, a feeling of relief and accomplishment washing over me. But the door at the end of the hall with the blood stain was still closed.



I grasped the handle and pulled, confusion furrowing my brow. I turned toward the mirror again, and could see the door plain, wide open in the reflection, the entire doorway painted black. I could see my reflection as well, standing next to the open door, but where I stood, here, in reality, was nothing but a door with an ornate knob that was securely fastened.



I turned to the mirror for the final time, and the face in the reflection was angry. I picked up a small chair in the hallway, and hurled it viciously at the mirror. I cannot begin to express the felicity I felt as I heard it shatter into thousands of tiny shards.



Then something caught my attention. It wasn’t something I saw or something I felt, but something I heard. I heard the glass sharply cracking, and the small pieces falling with a tinkling sound to the floor, but there was a thud, like something heavy hit the floor as well.



I could hear the break echo through the house, along with my boyhood laughter and fearful screams. The echo was clear: the smashing of the chair into the glass, the cracking, the tinkling, and a thud. Could I be sure the thud wasn’t my own heart pounding in my chest?



The moonlight spilled unevenly over the broken glass, reflecting light around the room in a manner that I wasn’t used to. As I slowly paced back toward the mirror a different refracting of light lay among the pieces, duller, dirtier. It was metallic.



My steps were slow, my breathing irregular. With each step the object became more defined. It was so small, however, that I was standing directly over it before realizing it was a key. A piece of red ribbon was tied around its most central loop, and its fashion was intricate and antique. I had no doubt that it went to the door, and was so sure that it did, in fact, so as to have the key in my hand and in the lock before I remembered picking it up.



I stood with one hand on the key, the other on the knob, my quest’s end in sight. There was nothing, nothing I wanted more than to discover what lay beyond the door, and yet, I felt a sense of finishing that had been so long in coming that I dared not rush the sensation.



Sensation. Realization dawned as the sun I could see starting to spill through the stained glass windows. The image of myself in the mirror burned in my memory. The fire in my grey eyes that I recognized in that moment staring at my reflection was my soul, my true self. I saw that it wasn’t until I found my true self that I was able to find that which I most earnestly sought.



I twisted the key; the lock clicked, and the knob turned freely in my hand.

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