The Lights are on but Nobody's Home

A house this old doesn’t have a doorbell so knocking is the only way forward for the couple. The large door does have a heavy iron knocker though, which helps a little, the echo of the bang as it reverberates through the house audible even from outside. After three strong knocks, Roger steps back, waiting for a footman or a concierge to receive them. Beside him, Becky huddles closer, seeking shelter from the wind and rain.

Waiting at least half a minute, it becomes clear that no one is coming. Perhaps he would have waited longer, but the weather, coupled with his wife’s frightened demeanor, urges him to try the door again sooner. He slams the knocker against the door once more, with added ****, sure that whoever was on the other side of that door couldn’t possibly have not heard it this time. And again they wait. They wait for someone who never comes.

****, Roger begins to pound the door. Foregoing the knocker all together, he batters the wood with his bare fist and shouts, though his words are drowned out over the howl of the wind. How long he hits the door, he’s unsure, but he does it until he tires, and then slumps back, at a loss. He looks around at all the cars, confirming their existence, and wonders angrily why someone would invite him to such a place and not answer the door, or why all these people would ignore such ardent banging upon the front door.

“Maybe we should just go in?” Becky suggests.

That seems a bit presumptuous by Roger’s standards, but standing outside surrounded by these creepy statues isn’t an option either. However, one small fact hinders them.

“How?” Roger asks, gesturing towards the door. “There are no handles to open it with.”

“There must be some way.” His wife is ****, and he can sympathize. They’re both getting soaked in this rain, and whatever the reason for coming, it’s seeming increasingly less worth the trouble.

She takes a few steps back and looks up at the house, searching for any way in, or any clue. When up provides nothing for her, she looks along the mansion one way, then the other, and still the house offers nothing in return. Finally, she concludes that this side of the building has nothing to offer.

“Perhaps there’s a side door, to the basement, or servant quarters,” she says, already beginning to move in that direction and expecting her husband to obediently follow.

Which he did. But no sooner than he moves away from the spot he was in, that the door behind him creaks open, seemingly of its own volition, for when Roger runs back, praising the lord and thanking whoever opened the door, he finds no one there. His wife joins him by his side, equally dumb founded by the apparently self-opening door.

Creepy doors that open by themselves would have to wait though. As odd as it was, and made them both quite wary of entering, the horrid weather and unnerving statues still made inside the more appealing option. So, setting aside their questions, husband and wife ran in, dripping all over the marbled floor of the wide, open spaced entrance way.

Directly in front of them a large, ornate staircase reaching upwards towards a landing where it split, leading to separate wings of the mansion. To the left was a door and to the right was another door. Behind the staircase, on the left, was a third door, and on the other side, perfectly symmetrical, a fourth. A large chandelier hangs from the high ceiling.

The first curious observation that is immediately noticeable is the complete lack of other guests. For all the cars outside, there is no one inside. And as Roger turns to look outside again, to confirm for the second time that the vehicles were not some delusion brought on from the long drive, the door slams shut. The old doors are just as unhelpful on the inside too, with no handles on this side to open them with either.

“Roger, whatda we do?” She’s already beginning to panic.

“It’ll all be okay, honey.” He rubs her back soothingly. “It’s a big house. The people are probably all upstairs or somewhere in the back. Maybe we’re late.”

“Late?” she shakes her head, her doubts about the whole thing flaring up again. “The invitation didn’t specify a time. It just said to come straight away. And how do you explain the door that opens and closes all by itself?”

“I don’t know, Becky.”

“Or the sound of footsteps outside? They didn’t belong to no statue.”

“I don’t know, Becky.”

“Well, what do you know?” his wife asks, folding her arms in frustration and irritation.

“I know…I know that we need to get our bearings. Figure out where to go,” Roger says and tries to sound sure of his plan. “One of these doors must take us where we need to be. Or we can go upstairs.” He looks to his wife, hoping that by including her in the decision-making process that she might be calmed. “Where do you think we should go?”

“You just want me to decide so I can’t blame you if it’s wrong.” She pouts, but eager to get going, she continues before Roger can protest. “Fine, I choose…”