A Very Peculiar Door

Room 3

The first thing Harold checked was the door. He spun around, but sure enough, the sky blue door had vanished. Harold took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He cautiously extended his hand towards the wall where the door should have stood. His fingers touched something solid, something that burned with both heat and ice. Harold yelped as he retracted his hand. Strange enough, his hand was perfectly fine. There were no black char marks nor the blueish signs of frostbite. Despite his burning curiosity, Harold did not want to check his new findings again so he turned to face this new situation.

He wasn't sure which one was more peculiar, the first room, the second room or this new one.

Once again Harold found himself in a completely white room, but this room was different from the first one. This one was much narrower. In fact, it was so narrow that Harold could easily graze both wall with his fingers at the same time, not that he wanted to. The ceiling was also much lower than the first room. He only had to extend his arm upwards to touch it.

"You came." The voice shocked Harold out of his stupor.

"Yeah, I did." Harold replied. He searched the room, but once again, he was alone. "Where are you?"

"I'm right beside you." The voice answered. Now that was a blatant lie. There certainly was not a person standing beside him. Then again the voice could be talking about something else.

"Do you mean that figuratively?" Harold frowned up at the voice.

"Perhaps." The voice answered in an almost sing-song voice. Brilliant. Harold started walking forwards. He was certainly going to punch the voice right in the face when he finally met it. After all, the voice really deserved it.

"Will I ever meet you? Face to face." Harold felt he needed to clarify that last part.

"Perhaps." The voice repeated itself. Harold found himself disliking the voice more and more now.

"So who are you exactly?" Harold glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of his mysterious companion.

"I'm your best friend, your worst enemy, your victim, your killer."

A shiver went down Harold's spine. Harold hadn't payed the voice's words that much attention, not when his first priority had been to get out of this place, but now that he had all the time in the world, Harold began pondering the voice's words.

Harold didn't have that many friends. Harold never really paid much attention to it. He just naturally assumed that people ignored him. In reality, Harold ignored everyone else, not that Harold was aware of it.

No, the closest thing Harold had to friends were his drinking buddies down at the pub, not that any of themselves considered themselves friends. Most of them were there to drown themselves in their own sorrows with other people trying to accomplish the same task. Harold did feel sorry for most of them. After all, Harold wasn't there to drown himself in his sorrows. No he was perfectly happy with his ordinary little life. At least that's what Harold liked to think.

Harold's mind wandered to his workplace. Did he have any friends there? He supposed that John from a few rows down counted as a friend. After all, John did have a habit of stopping by his office every day to chat so Harold supposed that they were friends, but not best friends. Besides, Harold doubted that John could ever be his enemy. The man was simply too nice for his own good.

But other than John, Harold couldn't really think of anyone else. Perhaps the voice was a friend from his childhood. Harold doubted that too. Most of his friends had gone on to become lawyers and doctors and politicians. They were certainly too busy to put together this scheme.

Then again, it might have been easier to think of any of Harold's enemies which were fewer than his friends. Then again, the total number of Harold's enemies came up to a whooping zero.

Harold was quite sure he didn't have an enemy. Most people tended to ignore Harold. Harold was, after all, the archetype of ordinary. He had an ordinary house, an ordinary build, an ordinary amount of ambition, and an ordinary life.

In fact, Harold couldn't come up with a single reason why anyone would consider him of all people an enemy. He came from an ordinary background, got average marks in school, and his parents had no hidden money to speak of. Even his circle of acquaintances were relatively ordinary. Harold was the poster boy of ordinary and by God he was proud of it.

"Are you really my enemy?" Harold asked the voice.

"Yes." The voice answered quite certainly.

"And you're also my friend." Harold scratched his head. No matter how hard Harold searched, he simply couldn't come up with a single suspect.

"Correct." Now that didn't narrow it down at all.

"Do I consider you my best friend?" Harold asked. After all, Harold didn't know who considered him a friend so it only made sense to limit the number of suspects to Harold lacking social circles.

"Yes." The voice answered in the same unwavering tone. Who did Harold consider his best friend? He had been best friends with Robert from a few houses down in his childhood, but Robert had moved to the other side of the world after graduation. Besides, the last time they had spoken, Robert had made his busy schedule quite clear with Harold. Harold supposed John was his newest best friend, but did he really consider John a friend? No, John felt more like an upgraded acquaintance than a friend

Harold pondered this line of thought. In fact he was so preoccupied that he never noticed the door until it quite literally hit him.

This door was very different from the last door. While the last door had shown the wear and tear of use, this door was shiny. Its bolts glinted in the light. The handle was polished to a gleam and Harold spotted his own distorted reflection in the surface.

It was so very different from the last door. That one had felt used and loved, but this door seemed almost cold.

But as Harold approached, he noticed the small things. He noticed the small dents caused by tiny feet, the immortal fingerprints left on the shining handle, the rust starting to creep up on the bolts.

Harold gripped the handle and gasped as a chill shot up his arm.

"What's on the other side?" Harold asked, knowing he'd get a vague answer.

"Nothing dangerous."

Harold opened the door.