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The Black Brick

The Black Brick


The black doorstop hadn't moved in decades. No one bothered it or the door it held ajar for the cats and cockroaches, its only visitors.

The last human who'd dared to disturb its dust was a child with long blond hair. He'd found it to be too heavy for his tiny hands. They'd be wrinkled by now and those strands would be grey... if he had any left.

It was proud to have kept its secret for so long.

When was it placed here? Only the rotted bones in the oubliette would know. If bones could speak...


Its sleep was disturbed by a rush of damp breeze. Rain? Someone must've opened the outer door to the bricked up passageway.

"My grandfather said he came this way as a child."

"Spooky."

They both sneezed.

"And dusty."

The doorstop waited silently.

"There's another door!"

They passed the old brick by.

"What's this hole?"

"Bones!"

Their screams could've wakened the dead.

On their way out one tripped over the brick, their boots scraping off black paint revealing a glimmer of...

"Look!"

"Gold!"

They tried to lift it.

"Too heavy."

"Let's come back tomorrow."

But they never did.

It was November 9th... The Night of Broken Glass.


A new noise? Laughter?

Two voices tinkled like wineglasses.

"I wonder what this was?"

"Maybe a bunker? A cellar? A dungeon?"

More laughter.

"Afraid of ghosts?"

"Never! You'd scare them all away."

"What's this?"

The brick glimmered in anticipation.

"Just a yellow brick painted black."

"It's heavy."

"Leave it."

They went through the door.

"Nothing here but a hole with old bones. Let's go."

The black brick had enjoyed the interruption.

It chuckled as it went back to sleep.


© Kåre Enga (7.februar.2025)

~285 words.