The Vermilion Door

The summer I turned twelve, my family and I flew to the remote highlands of Veragua, a landlocked country of misty peaks and ancient, moss-draped forests. My mother’s parents had a house there, a sprawling, crumbling hacienda built on the slopes of a dormant volcano. The village below was called Pueblo del Silencio, named for the strange quiet that seemed to blanket everything, broken only by the occasional bell of a wandering goat.

It was the first time I had seen the place. The journey was long: a cramped bus ride from the capital, winding up narrow dirt roads, the air growing thinner and cooler. When we finally arrived, the sun was setting, casting long purple shadows across the courtyard. My grandmother, a tiny woman with eyes like wet slate, embraced my mother, then turned to me and my younger brother, Tomás. She spoke little, but her gaze lingered on me, a flicker of something unreadable.

The house itself was a labyrinth. Thick stone walls, wooden beams darkened with age, and rooms that seemed to have no purpose. The main entrance opened into a vast hall with a cracked tile floor. To the right, a small alcove held a rusted coal stove. Straight ahead, a heavy oak door led to the master bedroom. To the left, a rickety staircase climbed to a balcony that wrapped around the upper floor. Beneath that staircase, a narrow passage led to the kitchen, a soot-blackened cavern where a single hanging bulb swayed in the drafts.

I was given a room at the end of the second-floor corridor, a small cell with a single window overlooking the volcano’s crater, which steamed ominously in the mornings. The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the wind moaning through the eaves. Around midnight, I heard a noise: a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingernails on wood. It came from the wall beside my bed. I pressed my ear to the cold stone. The tapping stopped. Then, from deep within the wall, a voice, barely a whisper, spoke my name. It was a voice I didn’t recognize, low and gravelly, like stones grinding together.

I told my parents the next morning. My father laughed it off, but my mother’s face went pale. She exchanged a glance with my grandmother, who was kneading dough in the kitchen. Neither said a word. That afternoon, while exploring the overgrown garden, I found a small, wooden door half-hidden behind a tangle of vines, painted a faded vermilion, set into the base of the volcano. It was locked, but a key was hidden under a loose stone nearby. I slipped it into the lock, but before I could turn it, Tomás appeared, his eyes wide. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Grandmother said never to open that door.’ I laughed and pocketed the key anyway.

Days passed. The tapping continued every night, growing louder. The voice began to form words, fragmented pleas: ‘Let me out… I have been so long…’ I began to dread the darkness, but I was also drawn to it, a sickening curiosity. On the sixth night, I woke to find my room suffused with a faint, green glow, emanating from the wall. I touched the stone, and it was warm. The voice now was clear, desperate: ‘Please, boy… open the door… for you are the one.’

I knew I had to do it. I crept out of bed, tiptoed down the creaking stairs, out through the back door into the moonlit garden. The volcano rumbled, a low groan. I found the vermilion door, now glowing faintly. I fitted the key, which felt hot in my hand, and turned. The lock clicked with a sound like a bone breaking. The door swung inward, revealing a pitch-black tunnel that sloped downward.

I stepped inside. The air was cold and stale, tasting of copper and dust. The tunnel twisted, and I soon lost all sense of direction. Then, ahead, a faint light. I emerged into a vast cavern, lit by phosphorescent fungi that grew in patches on the walls. At the center was a stone altar, and upon it lay a figure—not human, but something that once might have been. Its skin was like dried parchment, stretched over bones that stuck out at odd angles. Its eyes were two dark pits, empty, yet I felt them upon me.

‘So you came,’ it rasped. ‘I have been waiting for a child of the family to release me. I was bound here by your great-grandfather, who feared my power. But now, you will set me free.’ It raised a withered hand, pointing a finger at me. ‘Give me your hand.’

I stumbled backward, but my feet seemed rooted to the floor. I looked down and saw that my own hand was reaching out, as if of its own accord. The creature’s icy fingers closed around my wrist. I felt a searing pain, like a brand, and then a rush of cold that seemed to enter my bloodstream. The creature smiled, a horrifying sight of blackened teeth.

‘Now, you are my vessel,’ it said. ‘I will live in you, and you will carry me out of this place.’

I screamed, but no sound came out. The cavern began to shake. The fungi burst into green flame. I yanked my arm free and ran, stumbling through the tunnel, the creature’s laughter echoing behind me. I burst out of the vermilion door and slammed it shut, turning the key. I fled back to the house, my heart hammering.

In my room, I collapsed on the bed, trembling. But the voice in my head did not fade. It grew stronger, whispering, ‘You cannot lock me away forever. I am inside you now.’ I looked in the mirror. My eyes were the same, but for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of green in their depths.

The next morning, I tried to tell my parents, but the words died in my throat. Instead, I found myself smiling and saying, ‘Everything is fine.’ Tomás looked at me with suspicion, but said nothing.

We left a week later. As the bus wound down the mountain, I stared out the window at the receding hacienda. The vermilion door was a tiny speck, but I knew it was still there. And I knew that something else was there too, waiting. Since that day, I have not returned to Veragua. But the whispering has never stopped. Every night, I hear it, a soft, gravelly voice from within, saying my name, reminding me that I am not alone. And sometimes, when I catch my reflection in a dark window, I see a shadow behind my own, one that moves just a little too late.