Ending #1 to THE DOOR OF IMMORTALITY

"Stop!" the boy pleaded, now sounding alarmed like there was nothing he could do to stop her. "Don't go in, mom!"
Marijka paused from pulling the door open. She tilted her head a little and asked, "What?"
The boy was silent, and Marijka shuddered as the melody came on her hard, tinkling a depressing tune as to lure her in. She turned all the way around to meet the boy's cautious stare.

"What did you just say?" Marijka asked again. The boy's expression turned from cautious to horrified at what he had just said.
"I said, don't go in.. please." The boy stared at her with such sadness that Marijka began to pity him.
"And what will happen if I do?"
The boy cast his gaze down and mumbled, "Then you will remember me. And I don't want you to remember me, because then he'll bring you here again and again... and you'll go through that door again and again trying to get out, then remembering again, and then you will go crazy and you won't come back anymore."
Marijka repeated the words over and over in her mind, not making any sense out of them. But nothing made sense here.
"I don't understand." she finally said. But she didn't stop to wait for him to explain more clearly. She turned back around and swung the door open.
The darkness was rich with something indescribable. It was completely silent now, and the blackness was pulling her in. She felt she desperately had to go in.
And she did.

Marijka sat bolt upright, her eyes adjusting in her dimly lit, black cascaded bedroom. Her husband still wasn't home yet, but she didn't blame him. She knew he was going through a rougher time than she was. He was closer to Ryan.
Ryan.
Suddenly her dream came back to her, and she screamed. Pulling on a bathrobe that she had dyed black since the death of her son, Marijka ran out of the house and down the street, to the cemetary across from the playground.
There, in the far back, was a small headstone inscripted with Ryan's name, date of birth, and the day that he died. She fell to her knees and clutched the rock as if it would bring her closer to him. She didn't know what her dream meant, because she was slowly becoming insane.
No wonder that melody seemed familiar. She had been there before... numerous times... looking for him. Looking for Ryan.
But she didn't want to go there again, because the dream scared her.
No matter what it meant, or how much sense it made, she didn't and wouldn't go back.
And she let go.

"Is It Time Yet?"

One ordinary man stood on the corner of Eighth Boulevard, twirling his bowlers hat impatiently.
The stars were just appearing in the twilit sky, and a few wisps of stratus clouds were still visible.
Very few people were still out roaming the streets at this time of night, and the shops had long since closed up. But that excluded the one particular who was rounding the alley, his coat pulled up over his chilled ears.
When the ordinary man, whose name was, in fact, Henry, spotted the other making his way towards him, his bowler dropped to the pavement and he didn’t bother picking it up.
“It’s a beautiful night,” the man, Edmund, offered to his friend.
“Indeed.” Henry answered. The two stood across from each other, each slightly anxious since their last meeting fourteen years ago.
Edmund rocked on his heels. “Eh, how is Maryanne doing these days?”
“She is dead.” the other confirmed. A door slammed somewhere in the distance, and a stray cat crept in the shadows of the alley.
The two men nodded at each other and stood side by side, searching the sky for the north star, finally spotting it behind the bank roof.
“Is it time, then?” asked Edmund, glancing at his companion. Henry fiddled with his pocket watch and nodded. “Almost.” replied Henry.
A young couple passed in front of the two men, oblivious to the great danger that would be happening minutes from now. They were cuddled close, keeping the warmth between themselves.
Henry glared at his watch until it showed 9:15, then tucked it into his trousers and rubbed his hands together nervously.

The Rider

It was windier than usual that night. The wind howled through the tall, shadowy woods making the hallow wood whistle. The owls could not even be heard over the breeze.
A bearded, shaggy young man with a tattered uniform galloped through these woods on a wild horse, leaning forwards to keep the wind out of his eyes.
In his saddlebag was a scroll tied with a cord of leather. And this man had determined means to deliver it. He didn’t know what it said, unfortunately. All he knew was, that if he did not deliver it, the fate of the future would be on his hands.
An hour flew by, almost as fast as the old horse was running. An hour of branches tearing his clothes and trying to hold him down. But he had eyes and senses only for the path ahead.
Eventually, in the distance, he could see the old cottage nestled in a bundle of trees. The bricks were old and could barely hold up the structure.
Mother Gothel was standing on the porch, waiting patiently. A hood was covering the top of her scraggily grey hair, and her purple eyes were ablaze with curiosity.
The man pulled the reigns harshly as he skidded up to the house. Clambering off the horse, the man took up his saddlebag and made his way over to Mother Gothel.
Mother Gothel opened the bag and pulled out the paper and unraveled it, her eyes skimming over the words faster then one could comprehend.
Finally, with a grunt, she handed the man a gold coin.

PS

[I added some more to the story "A visitor at dawn"]

Thanks,
Becca

PSS- I'm angry that not very many people are commmenting.
If I don't get at least 5 people rating my stories, I'll.....!!!

The Door of Immortality

It was the cold, piercing breeze that woke Marijka. Her eyelids were heavy, but she managed to pull them back to take in the scene around her.
She was lying sprawled across a cold stretch of concrete that was as cold as ice.
There were no windows in the room she was in, but tall concrete pillars led to a door on the other side. It was a simple door; a silver door with a straight, green border.
For a moment, she thought she heard a faint chime of a music box coming from across the room.
Marijka lifted herself up by the elbows, and tried pushing herself into a sitting position.
Once the dizziness passed, she felt the pain on the back of her head and rubbed the goose egg, wincing. She then looked down at her short, stubby fingers. Something didn't seem quite right. These sun-browned hands didn't look familiar.
Footsteps echoed somewhere in her mind, and Marijka clambered to her feet and whipped around, searching every corner of the windowless, cold room.
She didn't spot the little boy at first, but he had approached her from behind. Marijka screamed when she turned, stumbling back a few feet.
The boy looked no older than ten, with bleached blonde hair and a crooked, trusting smile.
"Look at my watch," the boy said, grinning and holding up a gold pocketwatch for her to examine.
Marijka glanced from the boy to the watch in horror for several long moments, then swallowed loudly and took it from him to look at it more closely.
It was a roman numeral watch, but the surface had a small crack in it and the secondhand was ticking backwards.
"That's... wonderful." she told him, and handed it back.
Too intimidated by the boy's wide, electric blue eyes to look away, Marijka edged in the direction of the door. The closer she came to the door, the better she heard the distant, depressing melody tinkling behind the wall. The boy realized what she was trying to do and his eyes grew wide with fright and tenacity.
"You can't go through that door," he told her in a concerned tone.
Marijka's heartbeats quickened slightly, and without thinking or questioning, she turned away from him and ran the distance to the doorknob.
She could now hear the music. But she didn't stop to think about how familiar and mournful it sounded.
Marijka reached up to pull her long blonde hair away from her neck, as she often did when she was frightened or confused. But her hair was too short to cover those goosebumps on her neck; her hair was now chin-length and dark.
Taking a few deep breaths, she grasped the doorknob and turned.
"Stop!" the boy pleaded, now sounding alarmed like there was nothing he could do to stop her. "Don't go in, mom!"
Marijka paused from pulling the door open. She tilted her head a little and asked, "What?"
The boy was silent, and Marijka shuddered as the melody came on her hard, tinkling a depressing tune as to lure her in. She turned all the way around to meet the boy's cautious stare.

To be continued. (With alternate endings)

A visitor at dawn

Jashon peered dubiously through the thick fog that wrapped itself around the summit. He couldn't see farther than two feet from where he was standing, and that wasn't good.
If anyone were to approach, he wouldn't know until it was too late.
Jashon leaned back onto the fence, waiting, as he had been doing for the past hour and a half.
The sun was still hiding behind the hills and the rooster had a long wait until it could crow.
Just then, through the stillness of the morning, came the creepy rustle of weeds in the pasture ahead.
Jashon nearly lost his footing as he tried to stand up a little straighter to greet his guest. A broad, cloaked figure made his way over to Jashon and held out his hand.
Jashon shuddered very notibly as he took the pale hand and brushed his lips over it.
"What news of my daughter?" a deep, raspy voice questioned from under his hood. Jashon hesitated for a moment then said,
"She has been annihilated, sire."
The cloaked man was still for a moment, then reached up to pull off his hood. He was an ancient, wrinkled man whose skin was as pale as parchment. His eyes were large, round, and completely black. Jashon was caught in the man's gaze and couldn't for the life of him look away. The man narrowed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm himself.
"..Who did it, Jashon?" he demanded, in a voice not as friendly as he had intended. Jashon's knees started to wobble, but he resisted reaching out for the fence to stable himself.
Finally, after taking a small gulp, Jashon said, "You killed her, my lord."

It was the man’s expression that awoke Jashon that morning. He sat up in bed, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. Warm tears were escaping down his cheek.
Jashon sat until his shaking subsided, then swung his feet out of bed and stumbled out into the hallway to his daughter’s room. The pink, lacy curtains were shut tight and the princess lamp was still glowing, illuminating the sleeping girl’s innocent face.
Assured that his daughter was safe, Jashon made his way into the living room to lie on the sofa. He tried to block the haunting dream from his mind as he buried his sweaty, tear-stricken face into the pillow.
Hours passed and the sun began to rise up in the east, yet Jashon could not rest. Eventually, he sighed and pushed himself up. The living room was just as he had left it; there was no sign of an intruder. Books with the binding ripped, wrinkled papers, protractors and an old compass scattered the dining table, and continued onto the coffee table and a counter top.
Jashon glanced over at the table in the corner of the two couches that held a lamp and a few photographs. He reached over to the family portrait and stared long and hard at the woman with the long brown hair and wide, sincere eyes. Her hand was resting on his shoulder and also on the shoulder of the little girl.
The woman was smiling radiantly, yet she also stared back with such knowing eyes that he felt she knew what he was thinking.
“Jashon,” she whispered, and Jashon even looked up to see if she was standing there. But she was still in the photograph.
“It’s time to tell my father.”