Open the Door

When winter first descended on the town of Marble every year, its elderly residents turned to one another and shared knowing looks. “My, my,” they’d say over their morning coffee and paper. “The Oleanders must be going out for a stroll.” An urban legend, a superstition really. An old rumor that’d been circulating amongst them for so long that they couldn’t even remember what scandal or slight sparked it in the first place. All that they knew for sure was that the Oleanders were not well loved in the town of Marble, and that the feeling was mutual.

The Oleanders were an old family. Some records traced them back to the days of the revolution, others back further still to the Mayflower. As the name was passed down, father to son, mother to daughter, it accumulated both reputation and wealth comparable to that of Morgan or Rockefeller. Yet perhaps most remarkable of all, no one was ever really sure how they did it.

They largely kept themselves sequestered inside their family home: the Oleander House of Juniper Hill. It was an impressive estate, indeed. Its size and grandeur dwarfed even that of the nearby Marble University, and some said the castle-like structure was already old when the town was new. “The Oleanders did not come to Marble,” the old folks would say to one another over their white picket fences. “Marble came to them.”

Things seemed to change following the deaths of the late Mr. and Mrs. Oleander. Their only child, Lilith, was something of an oddity. Before the old couple even had time to settle in their graves, Lilith, her hair so blonde it was nearly white, became a common sight around town. Her smile was infectious, her wit was sharp, and her heart was open. She attended university, she went shopping in town, and she soon accrued a loyal following of devoted friends. She even broke with tradition by courting a man from town rather than some distant cousin.

Their wedding the year after was a public affair and no expense was spared. There was an open invitation to the entire town to attend; naturally, all of Marble’s senior citizens gladly accepted. “This charity is a ruse, surely,” they whispered to one another in between courses, bellies full of pork and tarts and expensive wine. “Oleanders always want something.”

The young couple moved into the Oleander House together, but their marital bliss would not last long. On the morning of December 18th, 1975, not six months after the wedding, the news broke on the shocked people of Marble; Lilith Oleander was dead. Just like that, the Oleander lineage, long and prestigious as it was, had come to an abrupt end. The lights in the house on Juniper Hill had gone dark for good.

Power abhors a vacuum, and vultures descended on Juniper Hill with a vengeance in the following months and years. No doubt they saw themselves as potential heirs to the throne the Oleanders had vacated. Lilith’s widower was all too eager to sell the house; he didn’t remain there a night after his wife passed, moving back into his parents’ home on Charter Road. Some claimed it was heartbreak, others said it was guilt, but none would get an answer from Mallory Doyle. He would simply go about his business in silence and solitude, a shell of the boisterous man that had once broken the Oleander spell.

Despite the interest, the Oleander House wouldn’t sell for decades. The property was cursed, they said. Haunted by the departed souls of generations of Oleanders, furious that their reign had finally come to an end. It was said that none of the prospective buyers even managed to make it past the front door. The mansion stood empty and resolute as the Berlin Wall fell and empires collapsed. Many assumed it would stay so forevermore, a monument to the once great family.

Mara Sloane knew the legends like the back of her hand; it’d become a rite of passage amongst the children of Marble to see who would dare approach the Oleander House, grab hold the brass knocker and pound it against the dark wood. None was ever foolhardy enough to try to open the door. “You can’t do that!” They’d squeal whenever Mara suggested it. “You’ll let the Oleanders out!” It was superstition, a lie spread by old Mr. Doyle to keep little children like them away from his property. “The Oleander House isn’t anymore haunted than you are smart,” she’d snap in return. Nevertheless, the door remained closed; Mara didn’t want to spoil the fun. The looks of terror on the new kids’ faces were more important than being right.

Mallory Doyle was nearing his eightieth birthday when the house finally sold. Mara, now Dr. Sloane, was a professor of anthropology at Marble University. Her mannerisms and charm were those of a much younger woman, and she took great pleasure in teasing her students. When one challenged her scientific dissection of how urban legends form and evolve by asking why she’d never been inside the Oleander House, Mara did the only rational thing she could to shut them up. She called up old Mr. Doyle and made an offer. He accepted right away.

“You understand, miss, that once I hand you these keys, the house is yours. I won’t be taking it back,” he rumbled.

“That’s typically how this process works, yes,” Mara replied.

The old man shrugged. “Don’t come crying to me when the knocking starts. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t open the door.”

“No wonder the house hasn’t sold in all this time,” she muttered as he limped away from the property for the last time. “He’s been spreading ghost stories about it for fifty years.”

The time had finally come: Mara stood before that dark mahogany door, not as a foolish child but as the master of the Oleander House. Despite herself, she hesitated. It was nothing but the old legends echoing in the back of her mind, the stories of children. Still, she half-expected Doyle to jump out and shout, “Boo” when her hand closed around the doorknob and pushed the old door open.

The house was no castle. Perhaps during the height of the Oleanders' glory, the roof would’ve been patched, the broken windows replaced, the surfaces dusted and paint fresh and unchipped. As it was, the house appeared as dead as the bloodline that built it, a historic and magnificent corpse, indeed, but a corpse nevertheless. Certainly not a haunted one.

Mara mounted the grand staircase with her bags, searching for a room to spend the night. She had big plans for the morning, starting with locating the furnace to thaw the old house. In the meantime, a fireplace would do. She selected a bedroom with one and started a fire in the hearth, bathing the room in flickering orange light. The room was larger than the master bedroom in her old apartment, though from the lack of decoration besides the Persian rug beneath her feet she surmised that it was a guest room. A simple yet elegant queen-sized bed sat gathering dust against the wall opposite the fireplace.

The groaning of the Oleander House kept her company as she curled up beneath the covers that night. It was peaceful, in its own strange way. It sounded as though she were in the belly of some enormous, breathing beast rather than a creaky old house; certainly more alive than it appeared from the outside. To a more superstitious soul than hers, it would’ve been creepy. But thankfully, Mara was not a superstitious sort.

A knock echoed through the Oleander House. Three short, timid raps of metal on metal that seemed innocuous at first. Mara shot a glance at the clock on the mantle above the fireplace; it must’ve been awfully late for Mr. Doyle to come calling. The numbers on the timepiece were unintelligible in the gloom. Rising from the bed, she peered out the window onto the front lawn, hoping to catch sight of whatever child was playing around with her door. Doyle had warned her it would happen, and she’d normally be happy to encourage them, even at the expense of her sleep. But darkness as deep as a starless night greeted her. The front door was nowhere in sight.

With a shrug and a yawn, Mara returned to her bed, only for the knocking to come again. The kids tonight were awfully brave; perhaps they knew someone was living there now, and it was emboldening them. That was fine with her, so long as their courage didn’t extend to vandalism. Mara had enough work on her hands putting the house back together as it was.

When the third knock came, Mara rose from her bed and resolved to tell them off. She could only imagine how they’d react when she appeared like a ghost to answer the door; she’d inspire a whole new generation of legends around the Oleander House. Mara swept from the room, bare feet making no sound as she glided across the wooden floor. Leaving the comfort of the verdant flame crackling in the fireplace behind, Mara made her way down the grand staircase to the entry hall.

Sluggish thoughts passed by her like driftwood down a peaceful river. It was just children; she had nothing to worry about. Whatever I do, I must not open the door. She was an unarmed woman in a very large house, after all. Anyone could be out there. Was it foolish of her to consider opening the door at all? It would be smarter, far smarter to stay in the comfort of her bed and wait for whoever it was to grow tired and leave. So why was she moving down the stairs, step by step, as if drawn by some foreign compulsion? I must not open the door. No, she would not open it. She would stand in front of the closed door instead and tell them to begone at once or else she’d call the police. But would they take her seriously if they could not see her face? Do not open the door. Oh, but how she’d love to see the look on their faces, as if Lilith Oleander herself had returned from the grave. Do not open the door. Surely a quick peek couldn’t hurt. Do not open the door!

Her hand stopped inches from the intricately wrought brass doorknob. What was she doing? She wasn’t a rambunctious child anymore, but a grown adult, a distinguished, intelligent professor. Why was she so keen to throw away her safety for a foolish prank? Child or Doyle or potential thief, it made no difference. The door was her protection. So long as it remained closed, she was safe from the terrors beyond.

A fourth knock came, louder than before. Mara pulled her hand from the knob as if it burned her. I will not open the door, she thought. But I will not allow myself to quiver in ridiculous, superstitious fear. 

"Who’s there?" Unlike the knocking, her voice didn’t carry far. "What do you want?"

The visitor's only response was to knock a fifth time. Frustration overpowered her fear, and she made her way to the window beside the door. If they refused to reveal themselves, fine. She would see who it was and then report them to the police.

She gazed out at the night and marveled at how complete the darkness was. There was no sign of the winding drive or the front lawn; no moon or stars overheard. Was the cloud cover really that thick? No, the clouds would not stop the green light filling the hall from spilling from the windows. The clouds would not erase the stoop or the visitor at the door. There was simply nothing there at all, not besides the black wooden door, brass knocker, and curved handle. Impossible. There had been knocking. Someone had to have been at the door. They must be hiding to play a prank on me. It was the only logical explanation.

The knocking came a sixth time while she kept a keen eye on the door through the window. She caught a glimpse of something in the dark, the silhouette of willowy figure with long blonde-hair. It was no child, or man besides. She was dreaming, it couldn’t be real. There was nobody at the door, to hell with the knocking. It was but an insistent, impossible sound.

Mara nearly turned from the window when the figure returned to view, just for a moment. It—she refused to even think the name—was peering through the window in on her, a ghastly reflection of Mara’s horrified expression. The mouth split into a too-wide, full-lipped smile that didn’t come close to touching the endless black pits of its eyes.

Please, the echoing vibrations whispered in Mara’s ears. Won't you open the door?

Winter came early that year, a biting cold wind rolling down Juniper Hill. “The Oleanders are angry that Dr. Sloane bought their house,” the townsfolk laughed to one another. “They’re taking it out on all of us from beyond the grave.” They’d stopped laughing when old Mallory Doyle was found dead in a snowbank, the hollow eyes of Dr. Mara Sloane staring remorselessly down at him with a bloody knife clutched in her hand. She didn’t resist when the police came for her; in fact, she seemed relieved. She’d cried when the guilty verdict came down upon her, but they were tears of joy. “I’m no use to her now,” was what she told the reporters waiting outside the courthouse, a manic smile stretching her face. “It’s finally over.”

It was only the beginning; every night after Mara left town for prison, a strange pandemic of nightmares spread through Marble. It was always the same one, regardless of who was chosen to experience the vision that night. A large, dilapidated old house lit by green flame, and an invisible visitor knocking at the front door. No one dared to make the same mistake Mara did, even if the nightmares would plague the town forevermore. No one would dare to open the door.