Article: 261279 of talk.bizarre From: Andrew Solberg <firstname.lastname@example.org> Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Subject: Marquette House nightmares: 2 Date: 1 Dec 1995 01:13:51 -0500 Organization: iTRiBE Mail to News Gateway Lines: 89 Sender: email@example.com Message-ID: <firstname.lastname@example.org> X-Mailer: ELM [version 2.4 PL23] X-Provider: iTRiBE, Inc <URL: http://www.itribe.net/> X-Gateway: Posted via the iTRiBE News<->Email gateway X-Disclaimer: iTRiBE, Inc. neither endorses nor assumes any responsibility for the contents of this posting. Status: RO THE RED DOOR ************ I am walking down the hall. The hall is narrow and the boards under the carpet creak softly. I do not like walking down this hall, but I have to because my room is at one end and the stairs are at the other. This hall frightens me because walking down it means passing by the red door. The door has a symbol on it. The symbol is made out of some kind of silvery metal, very well polished, and is inset into the wood of the red door. It looks something like a rather intricate rune and covers most of the door's surface. The peculiar thing about the symbol is that it is constantly in motion; staring at it for a few seconds reveals that its loops and coils and serifs are squirming around like a pile of snakes. I am not sure how this can be, since it is clearly set deeply into the door's structure; nevertheless, the symbol is moving around and it hurts my head just to look at it. I do not know who or what lives behind the red door. Nobody in the house knows. I know that they are afraid of it, though, even the ones that are strong and strange. Nobody hangs out in this hall. I have been warned by the others that I am expressly not to mess around outside the red door, except to drop off postcards. About a dozen postcards arrive every day. There is no addressee name given, but I know I am supposed to deliver them by sliding them under the door. I have looked at a few of them. They are generally all cheery messages, often from vacationers -- "Having a great time! see you in April!" -- seemingly from ordinary folks, and they all go under the red door. I slide them under the crack in one quick motion as fast as possible so I can get away from this damned hall. There is a light shining out from under the red door. It's always on. At least, I assume so -- I've never seen it off. It is shining as I walk down the hall with my bundle of postcards. I push them under the door. As I do so, my hand brushes the red paint on the door. Some comes off on my skin. I touch it. It is wet. I straighten up. The rune on the door is crawling about with great energy, and I feel that its peculiar patterns make a kind of sense. It is now utterly clear to me that I must open this door and explore the secrets beyond. The red paint on my hand confirm this, spreading up my forearm and pulsing warmly. I must not fear to enter this door, despite the foolish admonishments of the others. What is there to fear? it is only a door. I reach out for the door handle. A fraction of a second before my hand contacts the brass handle, my body seizes up. I stand like a statue. "Not for you." It is Simarrion, the magician. He is drifting down the hall. He is well over seven feet in height and painted like a china doll. I call him a 'he', but he could be any gender, or none. His hair is long and black; the rest of him is white, including his long and sharp fingernails. His gown is full at the bottom and billows; it just touches the floor. He could be walking very smoothly or floating very slowly; I do not know. The rune on the door clenches up in a tight ball. Simarrion drifts over to me and puts an alabaster hand on my shoulder. "Not for you," he says, not unkindly. I am still paralyzed. His kohl-rimmed eyes have irises that are very light in color. We are drifting now, sliding frictionlessly across the faded carpet in the hallway. The door is frustrated. The handle is jerking up and down. "Not for you," warns Simarrion musically, and he could be talking to just about anyone. We slide down the hall and around the corner. I am able to move now. Simarrion's hand is still on my shoulder. We are outside the door to his room. Simarrion pivots smoothly to the door and it swings open. He glides inside and I follow him. "Thank you," I say. Light fills the room. Simarrion collects crystal and mirrors, and his room is filled with tinkling chandeliers and looking glasses. Simarrion bows his head slightly and holds the pose. For Simarrion, everything is a pose. "You are welcome," says the magician in his singsong voice, and he extends his long china-white hand to me. "Now kiss me, and tell me I am perfect." I kiss the hand. "You are perfect," I say, and back out of the room. Simarrion has already stopped paying attention to me and is looking at himself in one of his mirrors. He is brushing his long black hair. "Yes, I am perfect," he says, lost in a trance of narcissism. I close the door and go downstairs. It is time to prepare breakfast. -- This post is COPYRIGHT 1995, Andrew Solberg. All rights reserved. Standard usenet distribution is acceptable; other forms of reproduction or reprinting may be considered in violation of international copyright law. Andrew Solberg is HWRNMNBSOL: email@example.com, Math Dept., Rice U.