Cynthia always said the door was an oak one. The description of this door changed all the time, but the wood was always oak. It may have been painted red (with white swirls and gold twist knobs and hinges) or bleached oak (with a brass keyhole and a peephole painted black). It sometimes was as large as ten feet and other times just big enough for her to squeeze through at six years old. Most of the time it was a standard seven foot tall, dark brown door with a black handle that could only be pushed down, and squeaked when it tried to move open. It was, however, always oak.
Cynthia doesn’t have a key. Not in the way that Cyndy and I do — or rather I do, as Cyndy lost hers far too long ago. Cynthia does know, however, that her aunt had one. Aunt Grace had a long black iron key that she held on her at all times. Cynthia said it was far too heavy for her to ever hold. (Which was not saying much as the last time Cynthia had been to Aunt Grace’s was when she had been no more than eight and she had been a very weak child.)
Cynthia had only ever gotten a glimpse into the room once — although she swears she had never seen the room open in her life. This attic door, she claimed, was the gateway to a back attic room stuff full of old brown boxes and a single window looking to the outside. The exterior roofline of the house had no such window. And while Cynthia says that’s what she saw, she will likewise swear that it never opened. It never could open. It never should have been opened.
Continue reading “One Aunt Grace (A Particular History 2) {RW}” →
Marlena Marie 