The Continued Tales From Beyond the Door

I live in the old tenement on Mulberry. You know the place. It's the one that never has to be decorated for Halloween. In the five generations that my family has owned it, it probably hasn't had a fresh coat of paint brushed across the rough and warped clapboards. The roof of the porch, growing its own field of moss, sags under the weight of sadness and neglect. As long as I can remember, grass has never grown in the front yard and a lone, stunted pine tree leans terribly into the wind. Every year, some kids from across the city find it hilarious to knock on the front door as some sort of rite of passage. Every year, my mother answers the door just in time to see several pair of boots racing down the steps and across the street to safety.

I would probably know those very kids if I were to actually attend the local high school, but my mother thinks it to be in my best interests to be taught at home. Especially after dealing with the heathens with no manners who knocked on the door and then rudely ran away. So, my only social interaction is with my parents, my younger brother and my senile great grandfather who lives at the end of the hall.

My great grandfather, third owner of the tenement and the grandson of the original family owner, was born and has lived in the old place nearly everyday of his life. The exception was during the four years he was island hopping in the Pacific with the Marines during the Second World War. He is a spry, old man. Well, his body is spry, but his mind is almost permanently stuck in 1942 under attack by the dirty Japs.

There were two rooms at the end of the hall on the third floor where great grandpa lived. Neither were likely to be entered by anyone in the family. One was by choice. No one was sure what would happen if you entered great grandpa's room. He could be attacking a fortified position or engaged in a knife fight with the enemy. No one wanted to take the chance of being mistaken for the enemy. If you absolutely had to go in, you hoped that he had tired himself out and was tucked into a dirty blanket on the floor next to the pristine, immaculately made bed.

The other room was the great mystery. Practically from birth, we were warned to never enter that room. Partly due to the fact that it was next to great grandpa's room, that rule was easily enforceable. However, I remember one time with absolute clarity, the only time my adventurous older brother decided that he was man enough to step across the forbidden threshold. My little brother and I stood a safe distance away as Steve strode confidently toward the door. He had barely reached for the knob when great grandpa stormed out of his bedroom door screaming an incomprehensible stream of words directed at Steve. He grabbed my brother and flung him into the wall across from the door.

"Are you ready to die?" great grandpa asked, nose to nose, after he had stopped screaming. My brother peed his pants and squirmed away from the old man's grip. He hid in his room for the rest of the night. It was shortly after his eighteenth birthday that Steve moved out. Actually, it was more like he disappeared in the night. I haven't seen him since. I'm not sure if my parents have or not, but I know my mother gets a letter a couple times of year on what looks like expensive stationary or letterhead. She reads them alone, never to anyone else, then holds them to her chest and sighs. I've never figured out where she keeps them despite a great deal of snooping between me and my younger brother, Seth.

So you see, my family is just as strange as the house I live in. An absentee father who pops in to pay the bills before disappearing on a job that takes him God knows where to do God knows what, an overbearing mother who is afraid to let her children out of the house, an older brother who disappeared half a decade ago, a younger brother who is content to be ruled by his mother, and a crazy, old great grandpa who is still fighting the enemy seventy years later.

But it's the door that has my attention now. My father, in a surprise visit for my eighteenth birthday, has asked to speak with me in his library. My father has a private sanctuary on the first floor that is a full two stories high, reaching its ceiling to the floor underneath great grandpa's room and whatever lies behind the other door. Book after book, moldy with disuse, lined the shelves all the way to the ceiling. Whenever my father is home, he has a fire crackling in the fireplace even in the height of summer.

When I stepped into the library, I was shocked to see great grandpa sitting in my father's usual wing back chair, while father relaxed against the credenza behind the chair. He directed me to sit in the lone chair in front of the great desk. A fire burned hungrily in the fireplace, heating the room almost to the point of being unbearable. Great grandpa leaned forward, his rheumy eyes suddenly focused and full of mystery.

"Miles, you've reached the age of manhood. It's time you learned about our family secret. All the men of this family for five generations have followed the same rite the day after their eighteenth birthday." Great grandpa's voice was full of vigor, belying the fact that he was well into his nineties. It was also the longest I've seen him coherent in a very long time. I nodded, not sure what exactly was happening.

"Listen carefully to what your great grandfather has to say," my father muttered.

"Miles. tomorrow morning you will enter the room at the end of the third floor hall next to my room. And we will close the door behind you. You must not leave until the following morning. To do so will cause your brain to revolt against reality and you torment you until all futures have ended. Do not leave the room early. We cannot afford to lose another man in this family."

"Once you are inside the room, you are to sit on the chair in the center of the room. You will not stay there, but it is the beginning. Close your eyes once you've sat down. The visions will come. Do not fight them. Let them flow into you. And from you."

"I don't understand," I whispered. Despite the fire, I was suddenly chilled. For so long, we'd been warned away from that door and that room. Curiosity gripped me and part of me could not wait until the morning to see what was behind the ancient wooden door. The other part of me was terrified by what my great grandfather was telling me.

"Listen, boy. You will experience a series of visions that will show you possible outcomes in your life. I must warn you, you cannot control what you see. Some may be disturbing. However, your own death nor that of anyone else can be shown in these visions, either. If someone dies, they simply will not appear. Violence is extremely rare in these visions. They can show you the love of your life, the birth of children and seemingly mundane daily events. Despite this, no matter how insignificant the experience of each vision, they can have a lasting impact on the direction of your life."

"These visions show only a possible outcome of your life. They are not the only outcomes. Ultimately, the choice lies with you. Are you ready for this?"

"I guess so."

"Good. Meet your father just before sunrise tomorrow morning. He will let you into the room. Just remember not to leave before sunrise the next morning."

                                                         *   *    *

It was still dark the next morning when I met my father in the hallway. The house seemed abnormally quiet. Even the constant creaking of the old tenement settling seemed subdued. My father pat me on the shoulder and unlocked the door. It seemed to catch on the threshold and moaned as it opened to a darkened room. My father flicked a switch, flooding the room with light. He gave me a slight push into the room, patted my shoulder again, and shut the door behind me.

The room was musty. Yellowed and grey wallpaper with a dust covered design was peeling back from the plaster in long strips. A decaying rug covered the floor in the center of the room under the lone wooden chair. A chamber pot sat in the corner. The windows were covered with sheer curtains that we just starting to show a rising sun outside. I moved toward the chair and sat down. 

And waited.

After about 20 minutes of waiting in the chair with no visions, I was certain that my father and great grandfather were putting me on. I stood up and looked around the room. After 18 years of not knowing what was in it, I thought it seemed absurd to simply sit in a chair and not investigate a little.

Book shelves were covered with old dusty books, very similar to those in my father’s study. Trinkets and doo-dads sat on top of the book shelves. None of them were familiar. And it looked like none of them were from this century. This was the room that time forgot, it seemed.

One book shelf had a box filled with letters - my brother’s letters he had sent to mom! Another box had letters from “Miles Smyth” addressed to “Rose.” Miles Smyth was my name, but I hadn’t written these. Rose was my great grandmother’s name. So maybe these were from my grandfather - my father’s father - to my grandma. My father never talked much about his dad. In fact, he literally never uttered his name. Which makes me suspect - but not certain - that these might be from him.

I pushed the box with my brother’s letters to the center of the room and grabbed a handful of them, sitting in the chair to read them. Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do, I thought. Maybe the “visions” bit was just a joke and I’m really here to learn what has become of my older brother and my grandfather. Maybe this is the real family secret.

I opened the first letter, dated August 17, 2008, just three days after my brother’s 18th birthday.

“Dear mom, The doctors tell me I will never see you again. My episodes will only get worse as time goes on, they say. But I’ve been told that I can write you regularly. They asked that you not share these letters with anyone. Not even dad. It will simply cause too much pain. The food here sucks. What I wouldn’t give for a decent pork chop and some mashed potatoes. I have to go in for my treatment now, but I’ll write again soon. I love you. Love, Steve.”

I was floored. My brother wasn’t off backpacking through Europe or living in New York or on an island surrounded by girls in hula skirts. Or any of the other things that I’d imagined all these years. He was in a hospital. And now I knew he was never coming home again.

Stricken by sudden grief, I sat in the chair and reached for another letter.

That’s when the rite took hold.

I was no longer in the room on the third floor. I was in a big city. Los Angeles? San Diego? I’m not sure. But I felt like I was in California. Standing next to me was a beautiful woman. And next to her was someone who looked a lot like me when I was seven years old. It was me. But I wasn’t controlling my own actions. I called the woman Clara. And I called the boy Steve. We walked down a boulevard lined with expensive shops. We were wearing nice clothes. And I felt important. I even walked like I was important. We turned the corner and I was back in the chair in the room on the third floor of the old tenement on Mulberry.

I freaked out a little and jumped out of the chair. I was scared. Excited. Confused. I wasn’t really sure of what had just happened. But I wanted more. So I sat back down.

Again with the waiting. Again with the impatience. Again with the boxes of letters.

This time I took one of the ones from my grandfather to my great grandmother. It was dated Feb. 29, 1952.

“Happy Leap Day, Mom. I hope all is well at home. I wish I were there. The doctors let me go outside for a bit yesterday. It was a treat on account of the fact that I hadn’t had an episode in a whole week. They say if I go another week, I can go outside again. And if I can go a month without an episode, I can come visit. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Tell dad I’m sorry. I should have stayed in the room like he told me to. Love, Miles.”

So it was true. If you leave the room, you go insane. That’s why my father never talks about his father. And why Steve can’t come home. I decided then and there that no matter how bored I got or how weird the visions were, I’d sit in that room until the sun rose the next day.

I sat back in the chair and once again, the rite took hold of me.

I was flying a plane over Paris, shooting missiles at other planes. A man sitting behind me who I called “Checker” was screaming his head off about “fucking up those God Damn Torries.” The planes I was shooting down had British flags on them. There were also planes from France, Italy, and some other places whose flags I didn’t recognize. My plane had no instrument panel. Only a big LCD screen. When I touched it, it seemed to just do what I wanted it to do. Our plane was hit and we ejected. I landed back in the chair on the third floor of the old tenement on Mulberry.

Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I was sweating. Breathing heavy. My heart was pumping 4 million beats per minute. But it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I looked around the room for a clock, hoping to determine how much longer I had to stay there. No luck. No clock. Just the letters and the chair.

I picked a letter from Steve’s box. September 4, 2008.

“Dear Mom, I really screwed up. I had a bad episode last week and stabbed a nurse with a steak knife. They tell me she’ll be okay but I have not been allowed out of my room since it happened. I’m hoping maybe tomorrow. I love you. I miss you. I’m sorry. Love, Steve.”

My brother stabbed someone. He’s crazy. And I will be too if I don’t stay in this room for another … I have no idea how long. But I’m staying. I glanced out the window. The sun had barely moved over the horizon. This was going to be a long day.

I sat back in the chair. I had barely touched my ass to the seat when the rite took hold.

I tried to gain some kind of control over this one but it was really no use. I found myself in a tent in the jungle, somewhere. It had to have been some time in the 1960s or 1970s. Wait a minute. A jungle? The 1960s or 1970s? Holy shit! I was in Viet Nam! But where was I? Why was I alone? Why were there no sounds going on outside the tent? For that matter, how did I know I was in a jungle and it was the 1960s or 1970s? I hadn’t even looked outside the tent yet. 

I decided that I was not going to let this vision happen to me, but that I would reach out and try to interact with it. The problem is that every time I interacted with a vision, I wound up back in the chair and in the room. Screw it. I was going to see what was out there. 

I went to pull down the zipper on the tent door when a knife suddenly cut through the side of the tent and a screaming man grabbed my wrist. What the hell??! I screamed and tried to see who it was, but the vision suddenly disappeared and I was back in the room again. 

This time, however, I was not in the chair. I was standing in front of the painted over window in the back of the room and I was facing the window. The hand that I had tried to use to unzip the tent door was still outstretched as it had been in my vision.

The hand that cut through the tent was still holding my wrist! I panicked, but I didn’t move. I could hear someone breathing in the dark corner of the room and I knew it had to be the person who owned this hand. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should scream, or run, or throw a wild punch into the darkness. Suddenly I start hearing the breathing being intertwined with what sounded like someone speaking Chinese or some other Asian word over and over again. I could have sworn that the voice was saying the word “get,” but I couldn’t be sure.

It was freezing in the room, but the sweat was running down the back of my neck and all over my body. I started trembling, but it wasn’t from the cold. I could hear the sound of the figure rustling for something in what sounded like a pouch. It sounded like he was sifting through a bag full of metal as I could hear small metal objects clanking against each other. 

The breathing was getting heavier and the voice was getting raspy and goddamned spooky. Suddenly, the voice switched from an Asian word to English words being spoken with a thick Asian accent. 

“Joe?” said the voice, with a long, drawn out “O” sound at the end. 

Suddenly, I could see the unmistakable silhouette of a knife blade slowly making its way towards my wrist. That was the first time I started to struggle, and the hand closed its grasp on my wrist to hold me in place. 

“Joe? You still wanna knife gook, Joe?”

With that, I screamed and turned to confront the voice but nothing was there. The hand was gone, the knife was gone, the breathing was gone and the voice was gone. I was drenched in sweat and close to shitting my pants. I decided to sit in the chair for comfort this time, even though it did not have a history of offering comfort.

As soon as I sat down and let out a sigh, the chair started to vibrate slightly. I thought I was supposed to just have visions. Why was all of this stuff happening? The vibrations started to get more pronounced and I realized that they were actually footsteps in the room. I could hear Steve’s voice calling my name, but that didn’t make any sense.

The room itself seemed to spin. Footsteps and voices that couldn't be there echoed in my head. I whipped around in my chair expecting to see Steve striding towards me. The room was empty, mocking me in its sudden silence. I glanced down to my previously empty hands. One of the letters was crumpled in my hand.  I unclenched my fist and released the pressure on the paper. As it smoothed out a bit I could see that there were actually two letters stuck together.

The first letter was from my father to his mother about an experience he had while in Viet Nam. The second was yet another letter from Steve.

“Dear Mom, They say this new medication will make me better, but I can still see those things that aren't really there. You know, just at the edge of my vision. Whenever I turn my head to look, it’s gone, but I know it was there.  They've followed me from the house. Maybe Miles can be saved from this torment now that they’re here instead. I've pulled them out of that dank, old room and made them mine.  Love Steve.”

I dropped the letters. They drifted gently to the floor in slow motion. I watched them carefully as a dizzying sickness took over. I grasped the edge of the chair to keep from falling to the floor. It seemed so far away.

The sky was a brilliant blue and the trees in the park were lush with leaves. It was a beautiful day. It was  a place I had never been before, or even seen. Still, I felt comfortable like I had been here many, many times.  I walked alone along a pathway toward a pond and creek. Other people were enjoying the day. I watched a homeless woman bring her cart from under the bridge by the pond. She wasn't filthy like some of the homeless I've seen around here. She seemed almost grandmotherly and caring to those around her. I smiled at her and she smiled back.

Suddenly a man ran past me screaming. The other people on the path parted before him as he rushed through the park. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. It felt like someone had pushed me, but I was alone on that part of the path. I must have tripped over my own two feet while enthralled with the visage of the screaming man. I pulled myself up to me knees. That’s when I saw her, the most beautiful, most elegant…

I was back in the chair in the room. My world continued to spin for a few moments and I stayed still to catch my breath. Everything was happening so fast. I couldn't keep track of what was going on. Who was that woman? My heart lurched into my throat when I first saw her. Was she to be someone special in my life?

I had never really thought much about dating. Well, I have, but when you’re home schooled and nearly forbidden from ever leaving the house, the social skills required to date are severely retarded. It’s not like I have seen very many girls waltz through the front door of my house. Instead, I've found myself staring out the window at the end of the school day to watch the kids walk home. I guess you could say I’m a stalker. So to meet a woman as beautiful as the one I saw in my vision, I must have spread my wings a little. Probably much to my mother’s chagrin.

With my heart rate finally settling down, I stood from the chair and paced the room.  The marble mantelpiece above the fireplace was coated with dust. I traced my initials into it.  They could very well still be there in a few years when my younger brother visited the room for his own rite of passage. The fireplace was cold and dark, not having a fire in it for a very long time. There were stale ashes and bits of wood in the crib from a distant fire. A chilly breeze blew down the open flue. I reached for the knob to close it when…

The bricks were warm to the touch, almost hot. The fire had been burning for awhile. Aside from the glow from the flames, a single lantern on the mantle cast long shadows through the darkened room.  The chair in the center of the room was gone, replaced by a sectional couch occupied by the same woman I had seen in the park vision. A flash of lightning and an immediate clap of thunder resounded outside the windows. The power flickered on once, twice, then remained as dark as when I first awoke in this vision. She was wrapped in a blanket with her legs pulled up underneath her and maybe a few years older than when I had seen her previously. Her hands rested on the lump of a pregnant belly. She smiled as I focused on her beautiful face. She let the blanket drop to invite me in and…

I steadied myself against the cold mantle. The fire was gone and the room returned to loneliness and dreariness. These visions were sapping my energy and my thoughts. I barely got used to what I was seeing before I was pulled away. There had to be a way to stay in the vision state for a longer period. I had to figure out a way. The constant tearing from reality to fantasy was scrambling my brain and settling my heart on fire, ready to explode from my chest. I was going to die before the day was over if I couldn't find away to control what was happening to me.

I tapped my forehead roughly and said aloud “Think. Think. Think.” It occurred to me that I was impersonating Winnie the damn Pooh. This made me laugh for a second. I still had my wits about me. For now.

I thought to myself: Do I let the visions flow, as dad told me to do? Or do I try to interact? I’ve tried both strategies and neither seems to have worked. Should I read more letters? Or just wait? I feel like this room should come with a manual. Or dad and great grandpa could have better prepared me.

I was suddenly awash in anger. Yeah, dad and great grandpa should have definitely prepared me better instead of just throwing me to the wolves.

I was in another forest. But this one felt different. I wasn’t in ‘Nam. I was in … Wyoming? Again, I had no idea what made me think - or rather realize - that I was in Wyoming. These trees looked just like any other trees. But something inside me told me I was definitely in Wyoming. Alone. In the woods.

What could this possibly show me about my future? Just then I saw it. Staring at me. Drooling. A wolf. A North American Gray Wolf. Staring me down. And then he stopped. In fact, everything stopped. The wind stopped. The trees stopped moving. The noises in the forest stopped. I think, in fact, time stopped.

I walked over to the wolf and touched it. It was real. The trees were real. I was really here. I thought. Or not. Maybe I was just slipping into insanity.

I decided that if time restarted, I wanted not to be in front of a hungry wolf so I walked through the forest touching everything I could. To assure myself that I was not, in fact, insane.

But why would I appear in Wyoming in front of a wolf right when I was thinking about dad and great grandpa throwing me to the wolves? I mean, that’s too coincidental to be a coincidence. And I wondered if time was stopped here, was it stopped everywhere? Was the sun moving across the sky back at home? Or was I stuck in one position living between the ticks of a clock?

And just like that, I was back home. Back in the room on the third floor.

So can I control it? I thought wolves, I got wolves. I thought home. I came home. It was time to try another letter. This one from my brother’s box. April 11, 2009.

“Mom, I know it’s been a while since I’ve written. I’m sorry about that. I’ve really been deep in my own head. As big a change as it’s been living in this asylum for the past eight months, I have a strange feeling that the biggest changes in my life are yet to come.

“I fear that these changes are not good at all. I want to escape. But I’m not sure if that’s a literal thing or figurative. Whatever I may do, please know that I love you.

“Love, Steve.

“PS - Miles. Run. It’s a trap. Get out now.”

Um. What? I did a double take a read it again. “PS - Miles. Run. It’s a trap. Get out now.”

What the hell did that mean? My eyes widened like saucers. My heart raced. And sweat immediately began to pour from my forehead.

Was this a joke? A premonition? Was this a vision? A trick? I can’t run. I can’t leave. I’ll go crazy like he did. Right? And yet here’s this letter talking about escaping. And closing with a note to me that I need to get out now because it’s a trap.

I went to sit in the chair to steady my thoughts and stopped myself. If I sit in that chair, I’ll end up somewhere else. Somewhen else. And Steve just warned me. I went to look out the window to try to discern what time it was. I wished there was a clock in here.

As I looked out the window, I’m watching a basketball game. The New York Knicks are playing the LA Lakers. I’m at Madison Square Garden. Sitting next to me is the woman from the park, and next to her is a young boy.  Next to him is my brother Steve.

“Thank you so much little brother for getting me out for the day,” he said to me. “I don’t remember the last time a hot dog tasted so good.”

“Yeah, of course,” I replied. “That’s what family’s for.”

“So Stevie,” my brother turned his attention to the young boy, “What’s your old man told you about your crazy uncle?”

My son - I’m guessing it was my son - looked at me with fear in his eyes, obviously not knowing how to answer my brother.

“It’s okay, Stevie,” my wife said. “You’re uncle’s just pulling your leg. He’s not crazy. Right, Steve?”

“Obviously,” my brother said back. “You wouldn’t name your son after a crazy man, would you Miles? Would you, Rose?”

Rose?

And just like that, I’m back in the tenement.

“Ok, screw this” was the first thought that fired into my head. I had enough of this back and forth. My brain hurt. My brain actually hurt.  What was the point of showing me all of this? Why did Steve warn me to run? Then it occurred to me that maybe things are not what they appeared to be. I started to wonder if Steve was part of something much bigger. I started to wonder what my father and grandfather were really up to.

It felt good to have coherent thoughts again, but the problem was I was having these coherent thoughts while sitting in the chair. Suddenly I felt a cold blast go up my spine and the rite took hold yet again.  At least, I think it did. I was still in the chair and, as far as I could tell, I was still in the room. No parks, no basketball games, no forests in Wyoming, and no crazy Viet Nam guy trying to stab me. But why was I here. 

“You’re here because the night is over and you can leave.”

Wow, that voice sounded really familiar. I could see someone coming from out of the corner of the room, but he was in a wheelchair and looking old. Even as old as the person appeared to be, I knew right away it was me. I reacted with the first thing that popped into my head. 

“Well, great. Now I am literally talking to myself.” 

“Very funny. It is time to get us out of here. Time to leave.”

As my older self was talking to me, the face shifted back and forth between my face and my grandfather’s face. It was almost like getting bad reception on a television and then having the picture snap back into place, but I never knew which face I would see. 

“Time to leave, eh? So who are you supposed to be?” 

“I’m you. You aren’t that far gone to recognize yourself, are you?” 

As my older self was saying the phrase “recognize yourself,” his face quickly snapped to my grandfather’s face and then back again.

 “No, really. Who are you?” 

The figure in the wheelchair sighed, stood up, took off his glasses, and his face suddenly completely changed to Steve’s face. All at once, the whole figure changed into present day Steve. He reached out to shake my hand, but I just didn’t trust it.

“Now you don’t trust your own brother?”

 “What the hell is going on?” 

“It really is time to go Miles. The night is over and you can leave the room now. You made it buddy! You did something I could never do!”

No, no, no. That did not make any sense. My grandfather said that he and my father would come get me. That is when I started to freak out. 

“No! You’re wrong! I have to stay in here or else I will go crazy! Like you did! I can’t leave yet!”

 “Miles, listen to me . . .”

But the voice trailed off and now I was very afraid that I had officially lost my mind. Was it really time to go? My father and grandfather didn’t say what would happen if I stayed in too long. They just told me not to leave early. Maybe they lied. Maybe that was the test. 

My mind raced. I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and a female voice saying my name. I didn’t recognize the voice. Was it real? Was it another vision?  I started to sweat again. I decided that I had enough. I decided I would come out now, whether it was time or not. I knew what the consequences would be. I didn’t care. I couldn’t keep doing this.  I grabbed the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. I started pounding on the door, but nothing happened. I kept trying and trying to turn the doorknob,  but it just wouldn’t go. I pressed my body up against the door and pushed as I turned the knob one last time. The knob turned, and I burst out into the hallway and fell to the floor. 

I looked up and instantly recognized the woman and boy standing over me with looks of concern on their faces. 

“Rose? Stevie?”

“Honey, what were you doing in there? Ever since your father died all you do is spend hours and hours in that dark room.”

"What? How? When?" I stuttered. I thought I had it all figured out, but now I was just as confused as before. I glanced down at my hands. There were no letters but it was not my hands I was looking at. They were older, lined with years of work, and lassoed by a gold ring which was biting into the skin around it. It was as though years had passed since it had first been placed there. I was eighteen years old. I wasn't married and I wasn't old.

My wife, that woman, whoever she was, helped me to my feet, whereupon I immediately sank back to the floor. The reality, or maybe in this case, the fantasy of what was going on around me was unbearable. I could smell the sweat dried on my body, and the underlying stench of decay from a forgotten and ignored room in a forgotten and ignored tenement.

"How long have I been in there?" I asked.

"Since your mother went back to Florida after the funeral three days ago. Is everything okay?" Rose asked kneeling in front of me. The boy scurried behind his mother's skirts, reminding me of my younger brother.

"Just sitting in there?"

"Yeah. Reading letters. You keep that big box of them in the closet in that room," she motioned toward the open door behind him. "I used to like that room, but when your great-grandfather died, you went off the deep end and made up some hauntingly bizarre stories about it. And then you closed it off to the rest of us. Some of your stories are great, but those about that room scare me. I'm very proud that you've made a wonderful living for us with your stories, but I wish you'd just stop those ones about this place. This is our home."

So I was a writer? When did that happen? Writing was one of the things my mother used to punish me with whenever I disobeyed or failed to complete one of my assignments. By far, writing was my last favorite of activities. This was definitely a vision and I was still sitting in the chair in the middle of the room. I stared past my "wife" to the wall beyond her.

Strangely, the hallway seemed brighter than I ever remembered. The drab, off-ugly wallpaper was gone, replaced with that chic, faux painting. Obviously, Rose had taken a keen interest in redecorating the tenement after we were married and moved into the old place. A ceiling light appeared at this end of the hallway outside the doorway of great-grandpa's room and the forbidden room where none had ever been before. This new brightness gave this part of the house a much warmer, lived in feeling than before. I sort of liked it.

Still, this was all a vision. What was it trying to tell me? Was this my future? I made it out of the room, retained my fragile sanity, met this beautiful woman, and fell in love? If this was where my life was heading, I was in for the long haul. I just didn't want to miss all those experiences in between. I scooted on my but back into the room.

"Call my brother. I need to talk to him."

"You know as well as I do that Seth is somewhere in Africa on a mission. There are very limited options to get a message to him, and it could take days for him to get back to us. He hasn't responded to the message about your father yet. What makes you think this time will be different?"

"No. My older brother, Steve."

"Steve? What are you talking about? You're Steve."

I cocked my head in confusion. Steve? My name was Miles. That was the most basic set of facts about myself. I was Miles Patton. I had an older brother, Steve, who had been through all of this. Insane or not, he would have some answers about what was happening. By this point, the vision should have changed. I retreated further into the room. Rose looked at me with something between pity and genuine fear. It hurt me to see that in her eyes. I backed into something solid that tumbled backwards. I looked behind me.

A stack of hardcover books was in disarray on the floor. I saw my face staring back at me from the back covers. I grabbed one and turned it over in my hands.

The Continued Tales From Beyond the Door.  A stylized picture of the room I was in appeared below the title. At the bottom was my name: Steven Miles Patton, III.