The Door

It's important to remember that everything that follows began with the simple squeaking of a door while opening. – Jhon Baker

The plan was going so well until then. Sheila had forgotten about the door until David arrived and climbed through the top half of the Dutch door, not the bottom. The shrieking iron hinge would have raised the dead, let alone woken up her foster parents. Brothers clearly were never to be trusted to do anything right.

Sheila spun out of her crouch and wrapped her hands around David’s throat. “Good job, asshole,” she whispered. “Now we’re on to Plan B or C or even M.”

David gurgled an apology. She set him back on his feet. Since stealth was no longer an option, it was going to have to be speed. “Stay here,” she growled.

Sheila darted up the stairs to their shared bedroom, deftly avoiding the squeaky steps left intentionally unoiled. She almost fell over the tripwire at the top, but the clouds parted for a moment and the full moon reflected off the silver wire. She grabbed the loaded duffle bag out from under the furthest corner of the bed, apologizing to the resident spiders. They’d done an excellent job of spinning concealing webs at her earnest request. Sheila hated to blatantly destroy their hard work, but she had to be as fast and silent as possible. Or the demons would wake and their one chance at escape would end tragically.

Sheila tiptoed down the stairs and back to the kitchen lit only by the clock on the microwave. David hadn’t moved, too terrified to even breathe. His eyes lit with hope when Sheila rounded the corner. She gave a backwards glance to the mugs piled in the sink. Her homemade tranquilizer had been tasteless in the rich hot chocolate but if David pulled anymore idiotic moves, they wouldn’t make it.

They crept through the bottom half of the Dutch door and scooted across the garage floor, avoiding the worn patches of old blood and the spell circle engravings in the concrete. Little had they realized in their excitement to get out of the orphanage together, what had lain in store at their new foster home. Sheila didn’t want to know what spells the Richters had used to convince DCFS that they were appropriate foster parents.

Sheila wondered when spellcasting became normal and expected as she and David eased the garage door open and rolled under it into the warm spring night. I guess when you see it everyday, Sheila thought. Tonight, though, their hellish ordeal would be over and maybe they’d be able to laser off the tattoos and heal the scars.

David smiled at his sister in the light of a half moon. She’d no idea that the door squeak was purposeful. He’d played the dumb brother long enough. Anne and Marshall Richter had taken a lot from him, but he’d paid attention and learned. David was rapidly calculating how long it would take for his demon stepparents to follow their trail. As brother and sister ran down the neighborhood sidewalks towards the old estate at the end of Rowan Street, a breeze picked up and the normal sounds of a spring night when silent. Right about now, thought David, his crosstrainers slapping the sidewalk alongside his sister.

A searing gust of wind caught them just as Sheila and David hit the crumbling wall of the estate. They caught themselves hard on the dry vines covering the worn stone. Sheila flipped about to face their adversaries, the duffle banging against her shoulder. David turned more slowly, smirking silently. At the top of the street were the Richters and they were angry. Heat lightning rippled off them as they struggled to maintain their human forms. Anne’s long black hair tossed in a brimstone wind of her own making. Marshall held a spear and a sword intent upon his prey.

Sheila grabbed David’s arm. “We can still make it,” she shouted over the boom of thunder.

David shook off her grasping hand. “I’m not going. And neither are you.”

Sheila’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “What!?”

“You heard me. I’m done playing second fiddle to you. I have gifts, too, you know,” David snarled.

Sheila realized David was buying time as the Richters approached. “Fine. Enjoy your gifts. I’m leaving.”

She ran along the tall wall and found the narrow crack where a tree trunk had failed, creating an opening. Sheila tossed the duffel bag through, then squeezed by, careful not to cut herself or leave any part of herself behind. She had cut her once long red hair and wore a baseball cap to keep the curls in check. Thin leather gloves were tucked into her sleeves. Sheila knew what would happen if any of her cells were left behind. Her heart torn, she glanced back to David’s leisurely lope along the wall. She’d planned for his betrayal, sensing a shift in her brother months ago. Her heart broke as the thin hope of his redemption shredded in the whirlwind of the incoming storm.

Sheila dodged trees, shrubs, and ancient statuary as she ran to through the gardens of the estate to the very back corner. She thanked the universe daily that she’d stumbled across the garden door tucked under the branches of three trees – oak, ash, and hawthorn. The trees were so old, their branches intertwined forming a thick canopy. New leaves were just beginning to open as Sheila tossed the duffel bag to the ground in front of an arched door. She ripped open the zipper, glancing over her shoulder. The Richters and David were through the wall. Sheila dug out everything she’d need for the spell and arranged them carefully to hand. Gathering herself, she murmured the calming meditation and centered her mind.

“You’ll never do it!” called David across the rumpled lawns. “You’re too weak!”

Sheila ignored his taunts and started the spell. She drew the patterns effortlessly, the hours of practice paying off. The lines glimmered in the moonlight that was fast fading behind scudding storm clouds. Sheila finished drawing on the door and set her mind to beseeching the powers behind it.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you get what you deserve!” shouted David above the gathering winds, the Richters growling behind him.

Once again, Sheila set aside her fear and focused her attention on the door. Saying the spell three times, she placed her hand in the center of the pattern and sent her will and her need along the lines. She could hear the plodding footsteps of the others and the skin of her shoulders rippled with gooseflesh as she anticipated being struck down.

Then the world stilled to frozen silence. The door opened with a tremendous creaking of the hinges and pearlescent light shone out. Sheila threw a hand over her eyes, just as the tip of Marshall Richter’s spear pricked her back. A thin hand with impossibly long fingers reached from behind the door and one finger gently knocked the spear point away.

A silvery chuckle emanated from the figure before Sheila. She had the impression of layers of robes and strings of silver chain.

“Now, now, children. You cannot have my treat,” chided the figure.

Sheila’s eyes sparked with pride. She’d done it! She turned to David and the Richters who stood rooted to the earth, eyes wide. Sheila laughed in contempt. “See? Now you’ll pay. Now you’ll all pay!”

Sheila turned to the backlit figure. “Thank you for your kind assistance. These people traffic in demons, in fact, I’m pretty sure they are demons. I hope you will savor this hunt.”

“Oh, my fair one, yes. We treasure the chance to hunt demonkind,” murmured the figure. Sheila could hear the baying of hounds in the distance. “But even more succulent a prize is to chase human prey. Run little girl. Run!”

Tinkling laughter razor-edged with mockery flowed over Sheila as she realized what she had unleashed. The undead horses of the Fae poured out of the door, white hounds with red ears yipping at their flanks. The Richters and David were gone in an instant, mincemeat under the silver hooves. Somehow, Sheila made it to the wall before they pinned her with spears and let the dogs finish her. The neighborhood twitched in their sleep as the singing calls of the dogs and the rolling trill of the fae trumpets echoed through the streets. After a thousand years, the Hunt was on!