Diabolus

A need for warmth

The rabbits had gone to bed in their leaf-padded burrows, birds flew overhead escaping the darkness. A single frog jumped beneath Michael’s feet. He was shivering, fighting the frost. Wearing nothing but a hospital gown, his body was practically naked.

Michael had been walking for most of the afternoon in search of heat when almost half an hour before where he is now, he spotted a distant light, a house, it seemed. And that is where he finds himself, standing outside the garden gate.

The moon was strong that night, shining with a potent vigor past the black roses and chrysanthemums, directly at the large door which stood centerfold. The gate was difficult to move but Michael’s determination was unmatched. He filled his need for fire with urgency.

The gardens were well kept, neatly sorted in allotted boxes with stems cleanly pruned. The lawn was perfectly flat like a sheet of glass had been laid on top. Michael stood in awe. If his mother could see this, she would’ve fainted with excitement.

With even more astonishment, he absorbed the grandeur of the door. It was framed by a gate, large in structure, stoic in appearance, but felt more solid as if it was made from pure steel. A sign bearing what Michael believed was the owner’s name above it: Diabolus.

“Diabolus” he murmured to himself.

In all its shining glory, the moon illuminated the metal lining, forming a halo around its edges. He thought it ethereal, some blessing from the heavens.

The handle was cold, really cold. His hands shivered from its touch. Michael fought through the frosted feeling, rattling the hinges with frustration. The door wouldn’t budge. He hammered it with his fist, drawing blood after a while. Regret slowly grew on his shoulder, a demon he tried fighting. But one cannot see beyond what is embedded in one’s mind, for their eyes are not independent of their brain.

Having realized how much his hand hurt, he stuck it in his mouth to bite out the pain. The taste of blood was intense, birthing jitteriness from its pungency. There must’ve been a different entrance, he thought. A window maybe? He looked around but saw no opening. The doormat which he had not noticed blended into the smooth stone patio.

From the side, it seemed raised, uneven, hiding something. His curiosity could not be quenched. Sliding his fingers beneath the underlip of the mat, beneath it revealed a key. The shape was peculiar, floral, and woven. Fascinating, Michael thought, realizing what he had just found.

No matter how hard he jammed it into the door, it would not turn. Frustrated, he moved the key to his bleeding hand before slamming the door one more time. He felt trapped, left to the cold, to shiver and die a pitiful death.

Across the flattened grass, he went, searching again for another entrance, a side door perchance. The more he moved, the stronger the blood ran. Through a blackened window, there was an empty room, furnished, Victorian, it seemed. At the opposite end was an empty fireplace, having lost its strength over time.

Eventually, the cut was too painful to ignore. Grabbing his wrist with his unharmed hand, he perceived how heavy the key felt. He raised it to the moon and with great surprise, the rust had washed away where his hand was holding it, leaving a shining bronze.

Quickly, he rubbed the rest of the key against his cut, fighting through the stinging jolt of pain that led up to his brain. He screamed as minuscule shards of metal embedded themselves in his wound.

From inside the house, he heard a crash. Squinting his eyes, he watched as the fireplace ignited. A chill crept down his spine and tickled his innards.

Hastily, he shuffled back to the door as one does in the cold. One more try, he said to himself, lifting the key to its keyhole. A thud sounded when he turned it, opening the door inwards. Standing across from him was not what he expected.

When thinking of an abandoned house in the middle of the woods, one would think there’d be a deer head mounted on the wall or a coat stand made from elk antlers. This house had neither, merely a mirror facing outside, directly at Michael. He couldn’t see past it as if a wall stood between the mirror and the rest of the house.

In it, he saw how hunched he looked. A hermit stood before the entrance to his cave. A tree, bent by time and wind, lurking over the forest floor in a cold embrace. He thought his appearance horrific, the mangled form and foreign shaping of his body, the distasteful state of his facial hair, his unkempt nails. It was odd for he hadn’t thought he’d been stuck in the woods for very long.

He turned around to peer into the distance. He could still see the last place he remembered. The mirror, now dimming with the leaving light, seemed to picture him getting older. His hair was turning grey with every second he stood still. The bags beneath his eyes multiplied.

The sensation of a looming shadow caressed his spine. From his reflection, he noticed a hand creep its way onto his shoulder, gripping it firmly with lingering fingers. A hooded face, too dark to decipher, appeared from the forming gloom. Its smile is the only distinguishable feature.

Inside his mind, he tried escaping, but his body was planted firmly on the pavement. The once shivering feet were then frozen, and not from the biting frost outside, but from the touch of the darkening blight approaching him. As heavy as anything, the door swung shut in front of him. The house, the world, and what he knew surrounding him began to dim. He had knocked at the wrong house, and forever he would regret it.

This story was written in response to Bradan Writes Stories and Jonathon Sawyer’s challenged titled Monday Mashup #24 on The Kraken Lore.

Thank you to the creators for a fantastic array of prompts and constraints!

Main prompt: Someone is "knocking at Death's door" - 2 points

A key - 1 point
A locked door - 1 point
The moon - 1 point
Mirror - 1 point

An example of symbolism: The hospital gown representing Michael's weakness, 
dependence and diminishing state - 2 points

An example of amplification: The gardens were well kept, neatly sorted in 
allotted boxes with stems cleanly pruned. The lawn was perfectly flat like 
a sheet of glass had been laid on top. Michael stood in awe. If his mother 
could see this, she would've fainted with excitement - 5 points

This point tally box - 1 point

Total: 14 points

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