Scrivenings of the King-Beyond-The-Wall

Mirror Mirror #24

The Locked Door

Sara had been renting the cozy little house for a month before she noticed it. Tucked away in the basement, behind some old paint cans and a dusty ping-pong table, was a door she hadn't seen before. It was odd, considering she thought she'd explored every nook and cranny of her new digs when she moved in. Yet, there it was—a plain, wooden door with a big, brass padlock hanging lopsided on it.

"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back," she muttered to herself, her fingers tracing the cold metal of the lock. The landlord, Mr. Henley, had never mentioned a locked door. In fact, the lease explicitly stated she had full access to the house—except for the attic, which was filled with his own stored belongings.
The next morning, Sara called Mr. Henley with a casual tone. "Hi, Mr. Henley, it's Sara from Maple Street. I found a locked door in the basement. I was just wondering what's behind it?"

"Oh, that," Mr. Henley paused, a hitch in his normally smooth tone. "It's just an old storage room. Nothing important, really. Just some personal items from before I rented the place out. It’s best if it stays locked."

His vague response only fueled Sara’s curiosity. Why keep a storage room under lock and key? What was so important that it needed to be kept hidden away? The mystery nagged at her all day and well into the night. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind weaving possibilities.

The next day, Sara couldn’t take it anymore. She went down to the hardware store, bought a set of bolt cutters, and stood before the door, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and guilt. With a deep breath, she snapped the lock open. It gave way with a loud, satisfying clunk.

The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, half expecting to find something sinister. Instead, she was greeted by the musty smell of old books and furniture covered in white sheets. Sunlight filtered in through a small, grimy window, casting eerie shadows.

Inside, the room was larger than she expected. Furniture was stacked against the walls: chairs, a table, and an old dresser. But what caught her eye was a large, ornate trunk in the center of the room. It was beautifully carved, with intricate designs swirling across its surface.

Sara approached the trunk, her curiosity reaching a fever pitch. She lifted the heavy lid and gasped. Inside were rows and rows of leather-bound journals, each one dated and filled with tight, neat handwriting. Beside the journals was a small tin box containing various old coins, black-and-white photos, and other knick-knacks.
She pulled out a journal from the top of the stack, the leather cover soft under her fingers. The date on the first page read "1952." Flipping through the pages, she realized it was a diary belonging to someone named "Eloise Henley." The name sounded familiar, and then it clicked—Eloise was Mr. Henley's grandmother, the original owner of the house.

As Sara read, she was transported into Eloise's world. The diary entries spoke of everyday life, the hardships of running a home in the mid-20th century, but also of hidden joys and secret loves. Eloise wrote about her dreams, her fears, and her hopes for the future.

It was then Sara understood why Mr. Henley kept this room locked. It was a capsule of memories, too precious to share, yet too painful to revisit. She spent the afternoon reading Eloise's words, feeling a connection to this woman she'd never met but whose life was intricately linked to her own through the house they both called home.
When the sun began to set, Sara carefully placed everything back exactly as she had found it. She left the room, locking the door behind her, and went straight to the hardware store to buy a new padlock. She returned, securing the door once again, the weight of the secret now shared.

The next day, she called Mr. Henley. "I'm sorry, I was too curious," she confessed. "I went into the locked room. I know I shouldn’t have, but I want you to know I understand why it was locked, and I respect that."
There was a pause, long enough that Sara thought he might hang up or yell at her. Finally, he sighed. "Eloise was my grandmother. That room... it’s all I have left of her. Thank you for understanding, Sara. Please, keep the room as it is."

"I will, Mr. Henley. Your secret’s safe with me," Sara assured him.
From then on, the locked door remained just that—a locked door with stories hidden behind it, preserved in time, and respected by those who knew of its existence. Sara felt a deeper bond with the house now, its history woven into the fabric of her daily life, a secret keeper alongside Mr. Henley.


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(818 words)


Prompt: Write a story titled ‘The Locked Door.’