I Don’t Believe We can — by K. J. Watson

A two-dimensional landscape of trees, moss, and ferns rose before us. In the middle stood a door.

“Open it,” my aunt ordered.

I frowned.

“Stop scowling, Emily,” my aunt told me. “You’re the one who dragged me out for a walk in these woods. Take responsibility. Open the door.”

Before I obeyed, I turned to face the car park. It didn’t exist. Darkness surrounded us on three sides. The fourth contained the door and the view of the woods, although a scene without perspective was hardly a “view.”

Confused, I approached the door.

“Glad to see you’re paying attention at last,” my aunt said. “When you open the door, check if the car’s there. I want to go home.”

“The car?”

“What else did we arrive in?”

I pushed the door. It didn’t move.

“The door’s locked.”

My aunt strode forward.

“Get out of the way.”

She raised her arm and struck the door with her handbag.

“It’s secured,” I said. “There’s a bolt at the top and one at the bottom.”

Hooking the handbag over her shoulder, my aunt glared at me.

“I don’t think the bolts will move,” I said. “Someone’s painted over them.”

“Painted them? Why? A door should open.”

We fell silent. I wondered if we were trapped. Despite my aunt’s presence, I felt alone.

“Don’t you have any tools in the car, Emily? Fetch them: We’ll break the door down.”

“But you said the car might be on the other side of the door.”

My aunt sneered. “I never wanted to come out today: You forced me.”

I sensed that this non sequitur by my aunt was a warning I should say nothing more unless spoken to. Any response would encourage her to make irrational and hurtful statements. Resolving not to goad her, I bowed my head. Something immediately fell on the ground between us.

“What’s that?” my aunt asked.

I picked up the object. “It’s a scraper,” I murmured.

“A what? Speak up.”

“A decorator’s tool. For scraping paint.”

“Why did you throw it on the ground? Losing your temper does you no credit.”

“It’s not mine.”

“I didn’t bring it. Stop arguing and use it to scrape the paint from the bolts on the door.”

I reached up and chipped at the paint around the top bolt.

“We’ll be here all day,” my aunt said. “Let me do it.”

She grabbed the scraper and wielded it like a hammer. Paint chips flew onto her hair and forehead.

“Mind your eyes,” I cautioned.

Grunting, my aunt doubled her efforts. The top corner of the door became a mess of scarred wood and metal.

“Now move the bolt,” my aunt said.

I tried to loosen the bolt’s end with my fingertips.

“Nothing’s happening,” my aunt commented.

“I’m doing my best.”

“You know what we need? Oil.”

My shoulder ached; I let my hand fall. A can of oil, the sort for quietening squeaky hinges, dropped at my feet.

“Good,” my aunt said. “Squirt some on the bolt.”

“Where did the oil come from?”

“Does it matter? Just do what I say. Press the can and squeeze the oil through the nozzle.”

I did as my aunt instructed.

“Don’t waste any, Emily.”

I put the oil can down and yanked at the bolt. It slid across.

My aunt handed me the scraper. “You can take the paint from the other one,” she said.

I bent over and noticed a keyhole. Peering at the gap between the door and its frame, I saw a lump of metal.

“We have a difficulty,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“The door has a deadlock.”

“Where’s the key?”

I shrugged.

“Don’t be dismissive. Look on the ground. That’s where we found the scraper and the oil.”

“I can’t find a key.”

“Someone’s taken it.”

“The scraper and the oil came out of the blue,” I said. “A key hasn’t appeared.”

“Obviously, we have to free the other bolt first. Get on with it, Emily. Stop wasting time.”

Someone knocked on the door. We fell silent.

A second knock sounded, louder this time.

My aunt pushed her chest out. “Who’s there?” she called.

Yet another knock came, its force rattling the door.

“It’s locked,” my aunt shouted. “We don’t have the key.”

The response was a thump. The door and frame shook.

My aunt grimaced. “Stop that battering.”

The thumps persisted as though keeping time with a metronome.

“How rude and ridiculous,” my aunt proclaimed, looking at me for confirmation.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I gripped the scraper and looked at the paint covering a small bump in the door.

“What are you doing, Emily?”

“I think the door has one of those viewer gadgets. Perhaps we can find out who’s on the other side.”

“Go on then.”

I raked the paint from the viewer’s lens.

“Let me look,” my aunt insisted.

She crossed to the viewer and squinted. The door shuddered with a further blow and bumped her face.

“That was uncalled for,” she said, pulling back her sleeve. She found a tissue and held it to her nose for a moment.

“Are you bleeding?” I asked.

My aunt studied the tissue. “Yes, just a little.”

I’d never heard my aunt so quiet and unsettled before.

“Could you try the viewer, Emily? I didn’t have a chance to see anything.”

“I might get a bruised eye.”

“You’re right. We need to be careful. What do you think we should do?”

This was the first time my aunt had requested my opinion about anything. I listened to the pounding on the door and gazed at the two-dimensional scene.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Everything’s so bizarre.”

“Can we not go home?”

I paused to consider my reply. Finally, I said, “No, I don’t believe we can.”

AUTHOR’S BIO

K. J. Watson's fiction has appeared on the radio; in magazines, comics, and anthologies; and online. His latest work includes stories in the anthology Retro Horror, the print magazine Horror, and the online magazine Horla.