The Hollow Door

The summer I turned eleven, Grandpa Ray hired me as his official gopher. We lived in a little house at the edge of a town that used to be a railroad stop, now just a place where the highway forgot to go. Grandpa’s land was five acres of tangled blackberry bushes and a few stubborn apple trees. There was a pond, green with algae, where the cattails whispered secrets to the frogs. The house was small, one story, with a porch that tilted like it was tired of standing.

My job was to fetch tools, hold the flashlight, and keep out from underfoot. Grandpa was a fixer of things, and he’d just bought a load of old lumber from a deconstruction site. The wood was stacked behind the shed, smelling of rot and old paint. He wanted to build a new chicken coop, but the first thing he pointed to was a door that had come with the lot.

It was a strange door, not like the others. It was solid oak, dark with age, and carved with patterns that looked like vines twisting into impossible knots. The handle was a brass ring, green with corrosion. Grandpa said, ‘That door’s got a story. Belonged to some fellow who lived back in the hills. He was a woodworker, made furniture. They said he put a piece of himself in every piece he made. When he died, his house was sold, and no one wanted the door. Reminds me of something, but I can’t place it.’

I ran my fingers over the carvings. They felt warm, like they’d been held by someone a long time ago. Grandpa told me to lean it against the shed wall until he decided what to do with it. That night, I dreamed of a hallway with many doors, and one of them was that door, pulsing like a heart.

The next morning, I woke feeling like I hadn’t slept at all. My room had a window that faced the shed, and I could see the door’s silhouette against the pale light. I had an urge to go touch it. I slipped out of bed, the floorboards creaking, and walked across the dewy grass. The carvings looked different now, deeper, as if the vines had grown during the night. I placed my palm on the wood. It was not just warm; it was hot, and I felt a pulse of something like an electric current run up my arm. I yanked my hand back, and for a second, I saw a face in the grain of the wood—a man with hollow eyes, staring at me. I ran back to the house and didn’t tell Grandpa.

Over the next few days, the door became an obsession. I’d find myself staring at it from the kitchen window. Grandpa noticed me watching and said, ‘Don’t get too attached to that door. It’s going to become the door to the new coop.’ But every time I got near it, I heard a faint sound, like someone breathing on the other side. And with each passing day, the carvings changed. The vines were thicker, and I could make out shapes—animals, maybe, and a figure that always seemed to be watching.

One afternoon, Grandpa was inside taking his nap. I was alone in the yard. A storm was brewing, the sky a bruised purple. I decided to open the door. Just a crack. I grasped the brass ring and pulled. The door swung open onto darkness, even though the shed wall was behind it. I could smell dust and something sweet, like rotting fruit. I stepped through, expecting to hit the shed’s interior, but instead, I stepped into a hallway.

The hallway was lit by a dim lantern at the far end. The walls were lined with doors, all closed. The floor was packed dirt, and the air was cold. I recognized the hallway from my dream. I heard a voice, not from any direction but from inside my head. It said, ‘I’ve been waiting.’

I wanted to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. A door at the end of the hallway creaked open, and a man stepped out. He was tall and thin, with skin like leather, and his eyes were two dark holes. He wore a long coat, and in his hand, he held a wooden box. ‘You’ve come to see my work,’ he said. ‘Everyone comes eventually. They think they’re brave. They think they can fix what’s broken. But some things aren’t meant to be fixed.’

He opened the box. Inside were carvings—tiny people, animals, trees. But they weren’t just carvings; they were alive, moving, screaming silently. ‘I put a piece of myself into each of these,’ he said. ‘But I took a piece of them too. That’s the trade. I made the door to keep it all in. But you—you opened it.’ He smiled, and his mouth was full of wooden teeth.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. He reached out and touched my forehead with a finger that felt like splintered wood. ‘You’ll make a fine piece,’ he said. I felt something tear inside me, like a root being pulled from the ground. Then everything went black.

I woke up on the grass in front of the shed. The door was lying flat on the ground, facing up. The carvings were gone; it was just a plain, old door. Grandpa was shaking me. ‘You must have fainted,’ he said. ‘Heatstroke. Get inside.’ But I knew what had happened. I felt lighter, like a part of me was missing. I had a new craving: to carve things.

That night, I took a kitchen knife and a piece of scrap wood. My hands moved on their own, etching a face—a man with hollow eyes. When I finished, I felt a pang of satisfaction. I realized then that the door had taken a piece of me, and now it was inside me, growing. The man had said I’d make a fine piece. I looked at my carving, and the face on the wood was not him; it was me, but with eyes that were forever empty.

I buried the carving in the yard, but I still feel the hunger. Every day, I carve something new, trying to get back the piece I lost. But the door is gone—Grandpa burned it, saying it was full of termites. The smoke smelled like sweet rot. Sometimes, I walk past the shed, and I hear a muffled voice calling my name from the ashes. I don’t answer. But I know, one day, I will have to open that door again, and this time, I won’t be the one coming out.

I never told anyone the whole story. I just said I got sick. But I know what I am now. I am a door. And someday, someone will open me.