The Second Door

Chapter One

They buried the dog on Friday. Local forecasters had warned the townsfolk of the approaching freak snowstorm on the first day of April. The clouds had roared in, dumped their load, and exited in a huff, leaving behind sorrow for one of the town’s prominent families. The morning radio announcer awoke the sleepy residents of Wakeegon with the news of the accident. “A local woman suffered injuries when her car hit a dog and skidded out of control on Country Road 9,” he had stated. “She was taken to the hospital and is listed in critical condition. The accident included two other citizens of our town who were also taken to the hospital, their conditions unknown. Their names are being withheld until relatives are notified.” “Get back!” Sheriff O’Connell had shouted to the small gathering crowd of sightseers. He muttered a few things under his breath when the young volunteer firefighter bent over the crumpled car to show him the severed brake line. Sara Reynolds Jacobs, wrapped tightly in blankets, had motioned him to bend down. Her eyes looked as if they held a thousand questions, he thought, as he placed his ear close to her lips. She whispered only three words, “Please help me.” Sara had silently stared at the sheriff, a long time friend, as he closed the door to the aging ambulance. Stepping back from the vehicle, Sheriff O’Connell sighed, glanced at the rooftops that were visible between the immense pines, and shivered. Only yesterday, he had disclosed to his deputy the gloomy premonition he had felt about the little town under his protection. He waited until the ambulance was out of sight before he sat down on the frost-coated rock at the edge of the road and wiped away the tears that had started to freeze on his face.

Three days later, the afternoon edition of the Wakeegon News arrived on the doorsteps of the local townspeople. Centered on the front page was an enlarged photo of a curly-haired girl accepting a wiggly puppy from an animal shelter volunteer. The picture was placed underneath the article describing the accident involving Sara. The reporter had stated that the town was still recovering from disbelief when they were told of the death of the oldest member of the Reynolds family the week before. Now the news of the unfortunate incident that had hospitalized the deceased woman’s granddaughter left them with a feeling of doom on this April Fool’s Day.

Later that week, Peg Reynolds walked silently from the gravesite to her car. A group of friends from church had given her their support, but now, as she drove home, she wished for the comfort of family. Except for Sara, there was no one left. Stopping for a red light, she shed her gloves and hat, and rolled down the window. The musty, earthy smell of the wafting breeze reminded her of the day her husband died. “Why did he have to die, and leave me all alone?” she whispered. Her mouth tightened as she squeezed the steering wheel, trying to keep the car on the rough gravel road. Pulling over to the side, she put her foot on the brake and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. How would she and her daughter survive this latest sorrow? Peg reached for a tissue in the glove box, her thoughts on the errands she needed to finish before driving to the hospital. Sara would be waiting for her in the tiny room on the fifth floor . . . the one reserved for the emotionally disturbed.

Hyattsville stood on the west edge of the town of Wakeegon. The two locations were so close together that they seemed to blend into one. The hospital occupied the area between the two and no one really knew for sure which boundary it was located in, Hyattsville or Wakeegon. “Why am I here?” inquired Sara, as her mother walked into the room. “On this floor of all places?” she added, pointing toward the doorway. “So you don’t go mad,” replied Peg. Sara’s mother walked over to peer out the darkened hospital window. The early spring fog swirled in the moonlight and gave the lawn an eerie appearance. Her heart pounded through the thin, pink material of her favorite sweater. She reached up to grasp the cords of the blind and closed it with a jerk. The swishing sound broke the silence of the ward. Sara licked her lips and pushed back the soft tendril of dark hair that had escaped her hair band. “Go mad?” she asked. “I thought that was a term from the past.” Peg rubbed her forehead and sat down on the old metal chair that was drawn close to her daughter’s bed. “It means the same today as it did years ago. There’s just a lot of fancy names for it nowadays,” she answered, staring at the white wall. Sara giggled. “I’m sure there were doctors back then like the great Doctor Thorton.” Peg turned to face her only child and let out a big sigh. “In the past, society felt it was a sickness that brought shame to the family. Instead of dealing with the problem, they tried to hide it from outsiders. Just like your father’s parents did with Uncle James.” Sara sat up and adjusted her night clothes, her face rigid and pale. “Mother, why are you scaring me? Do you think I’m crazy like dad’s brother? That I imagined the things that I told Doc about?” “Honey, you know this is entirely different.” “Okay. Then why is everyone treating me like it isn’t? I’ve been here for almost a week! I want to go home! Why don’t you take me home?” She grew silent for a while then asked softly, “Tell me. Did Uncle James ever get well?” Peg shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if he is still alive. I haven’t seen him for a long time,” she added, as she mentally drifted away. She remembered her husband’s chilly tales of his mother, and quivered as she pictured the two young boys locked in the upper attic bedroom. “What do you mean?” asked Sara. “No one was ever allowed past the second door of the butler’s pantry! The stairway to the attic was there, you know?” she blurted out, still alone in her thoughts. “They said the key was always kept in Grammas’ apron. That evil woman! At least the authorities rescued one of them. That’s why your father ended up being raised by the McAllister’s from church. Right nice people they were,” she added, drifting off again. Peg leaned back into the chair and closed her eyes. She thought about the yellowed photograph of a little boy with a mischievous grin that stood on her fireplace mantle. That same grin was also apparent years later in the face of the man who became her husband. What would have happened to him if the minister and his wife hadn’t requested his removal from the old woman’s house, she wondered? Peg jumped as a loud creak from the rusty hinge on the chair forced her to return to the conversation in Sara’s room. “Gramma insisted that there was a curse on the family. I don’t know how your father survived all the gossip, God rest his soul,” said Peg, as she jumped up and grabbed the handles of her black leather purse. “By the way, did I ever tell you that your father and uncle were identical twins? Meeting him was kind of creepy, you know?” Her voice trailed off as she hurried out the door. “Mother? Where are you going? You just got here! Where are you going?” Sara repeated, as she stared at the door and listened to her mother’s disappearing footsteps.