The Other Room

THE BLUE DOOR

He held out the key, and the old man nodded.

"Then if you have your key, you must have your story," he said, and there was that edge of greed in his voice again. "Tell me your story."

"How does it all work, though?"

The old man was almost exasperated.

"It's a magic door, son. You tell me your story, you take your key, and you open the door. Everybody brings a key and every key opens to a different place."

"You said a different world," Sam insisted. "In the ad, you said it goes to a different world."

The old man shrugged. "Sometimes," he admitted. "I don't always look. I'm just the doorkeeper. I don't even care why you want to see another world. Or even why you'd want to escape this one. I just want to hear your story. That is my price, a little something to make the job worthwhile."

"So you don't actually need to hear my story at all."

"Maybe. And maybe I just like to hear stories. Indulge an old man, why don't you?"

Sam looked at the old man and shook his head incredulously, still amazed at himself for even having come to this place at all. What had he been thinking? The advert had read like some morbid joke, in between the other ads for penis enlargement pills, call girl services, and sex-phone lines, but it had been effective and gotten his attention.

There had been a photo of a Blue Door and below that the text that read simply:

I WILL TAKE YOU TO ANOTHER WORLD.

Bring a key that doesn't have a lock.

Tell me Your Story. Call 416-555-0867

It had been the photo that had haunted his dreams for days afterward, that seemingly innocent Blue Door searing itself into his imagination. The door was old, ancient even, the wood giving off a sense of weight and thickness even under the peeling coat of blue paint. It was a door that belonged on the exterior of a house and looked as if it had been through some serious extreme weather. The heavy bronze handle was a sharp contrast against the blue paint and looked just like the one on is grandmother's house. Almost exactly like it.

He had gone looking for the key even before he knew he was looking for it, ending up unpacking his entire closet and then all of the boxes which still held his stuff from the move, even after a year. He had slept like a baby after that and had dreamed of the door that night, and this time it had opened for him...

Now here he was, and he knew that the flickering blue light could only be one thing... so why was he fighting it so much? What was the big deal about telling this weak old man his story, if it was the price he had to pay to see the door in person and to open it?

"When I got back to the apartment, I knew something was wrong," Sam said. He had meant to tell the old man to fuck off, and then he was going to force his way down the corridor to the door, but instead, he found himself talking. Telling his story.

The old man leaned his head back, a broad smile spreading on his face. Drinking the words in.

He continued: "I knew she had been cheating on me for months, you know? Suspected really, but I could tell that things had changed between us. I just didn't want to know for sure because then I'd have to face it, and then it would be real, and I wasn't ready for that. I didn't want it to be over. So I ignored it, and I accepted it and waited for her to come back to me. I just knew that if I held on long enough and showed her how much I loved her that she'd remember why she loved me, that she loved me and that she had chosen me. She'd remember. So when I got back that day, and she was sitting on the couch waiting for me, I knew something was wrong." Sam looked away.