It's Cold On the Other Side

Cold breath puffs from her chapped lips. Miles she has walked, yet no other signs of life can be seen. She shakes uncontrollably, her arms wrapped tight around her slender, lithe body.

He was real, she thinks to herself as she takes one rough step forward after another. The view is desolate, yet slightly askew. The surrounding area, for as far as the eye can see, is covered in sand. A slight breeze blows against her iced brow, making her huddle deeper into herself, her head tucked in as close to her body as she can. The sun beats down upon her back, but instead of warmth from its rays, which at this point would be gladly welcomed, all she feels is the chilling cold. It's desolate, confusing, and foreign.

She takes a chance to look forward for a moment, her eyes hoping against hope to see anything that could even resemble the man she followed through the door. Nothing new. He was so intriguing, so engaging. Yet the moment she crossed through the door, the door that seemed to have disappeared as quickly as she had entered it, so did the man. He had promised an escape from the horrors of her shattered life. He gave her hope that she might be able to reconstruct her life into something far more valuable than what she had left behind.

How long had it been since little Chase disappeared? He was so young. So sweet. She could still, even in this chilling environment, remember the way he smelled. The ringing of his voice as he cried out to her. The fear she saw in his eyes as he was whisked away by the stranger in the dark beanie hat and white gloves. The look in the man's eyes as he looked back at her, running futilely to the road from the park bench, the look of evil contempt.

How could she have let him get away from her so easily? It was only for a moment, just a moment!

She had looked down, rummaging through her bag for the wipes she knew she had. She had seen snot on Chase's nose, probably running from the cold of the brisk morning. He was bundled up all the way to his lips with a thick, padded winter coat, the hood over his head creating a rough, jagged oval around his cherub face. His hands had been covered in the red, green, and blue stripes of the yarn-like gloves. His legs had been covered in a balloon-like pair of pants, tightly wrapped around his big snow boots. She remembered that last image of him smiling at his mom, his baby incisor missing, his cheeks a bright shade of red.

"Mommy?" a little boy called out from the memory.

She looked up quickly, a blast of cold air sucking away at her exposed neck, and she was back in this desolate hell-scape she found herself in. She had heard the little boy. Her little boy… impossible. No, no, this had to be a delusion of her own mind. Her son wasn't here.

You know it was his voice, though, a stern voice deep inside her head said to her in a matter-of-fact way. She stopped in her tracks, staring at her buried feet deep in the freezing sand, not understanding.

"No," she mumbled in a shaky yet convicted voice. "He's not here."

She had chased the van down the street for at least a mile or more, running as much as her body allowed, long after the van had disappeared from sight. In her delusions, she figured if she just kept running, the van would turn around. It would stop. It would bring her son back. She tripped over a crack in her absent-minded mania, falling harshly to her hands and knees. She knelt there, her head on the cold pavement, crying with hard, long, deep sobs that wracked her entire body over and over again. Who would have taken her baby? Her baby boy? Why?

Tears stream down her face, yet never dropping from her lowered chin as they freeze. She knows she is nearing her end. Her eyes are growing heavy. She looks up, and suddenly stops, her body almost tipping over from the half-step she has taken, her equilibrium nearly depleted. On the horizon, barely visible, is a dot. She rubs her eyes with what feels like sandpaper, the ice breaking off her eyelids and lashes. After blinking a couple more times, she looks again, and it's there. A dark dot, glaring off the wind-swept sand. It's there. But what? She begins to run, her breath laboriously ragging out of her throat in large white puffs of crystallized air.

Who cares what or who it is, you just have to make it, the angry voice says deep inside her head. Don't stop. It's not even a couple miles. You can make it.

The police took the report seriously, trying to console her as she wept freely, trying to frantically recall the events as clearly as she could remember them. They kept asking what his face looked like. All she could recall, though, was the look on her son's face, and those horrible eyes of the man she was running toward. The cops combed the area for clues, then told her to come to the station. The station was warm, there was coffee, and they could talk more about what happened. She kept clawing at them, trying to push them away, while trying to cling onto them for support at the same time. She broke down again, then darkness as her exhausted and nerve-wracked mind caved in on itself, succumbing to the peace that only the unconsciousness could give her.

She falls hard, tumbling as her legs give out from under her. They feel like rubber, and the beads of sweat on her forehead have frozen there, making her head swim from the chill the ice brings. She looks up, shaking sand from her, staring at the now slightly more formed dot. The shape is slightly rounded, and solid. The object hadn't moved from the location it was before, shimmering slightly on what should have been a hot desert sand. She tries to stand, her legs wobbling heavily before going back down to her hands and knees. Her body is so cold, so cold. A slight hiccup escapes her lips as she starts to cry again, this time her body heaving. She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the impossibility of her task.

"Where have you been?" a concerned man's voice comes through the house as she shuts the door behind her. A man appears from around the corner, deep concern in his eyes. "You have to tell me when you leave. I need to know where you're going. I can't lose you, too."

She stares dully at the man. He looks as if he hasn't shaved in months, his dark, red facial hair unkempt on his pale white face. His usually bright, green eyes are almost a dull tapioca color, and his hair is scattered all over his head. He looks as if he'd been running his hands through his hair on a continuous basis for the past few months.

"I had to put up new fliers," she replied quietly, defeated.

"Evelyn," he says, walking up to her, looking hard in her eyes. "He's dead, honey. We buried him two months ago. He's gone. Our baby is gone…" His voice cracks as he says the last word, his eyes brimming.

Her mouth opens slightly, her head shaking violently, her eyes squinted tightly, her hands to her ears. She screams loudly, then reaches out, her nails digging into soft flesh. "He's alive, damn you! ALIVE! That body we buried, it wasn't him!!!"

The man recoils away, blood rushing down his cheek, the four ragged claw marks that have shredded his already too-soft skin. He looks unbelievably at the animal in front of him, this rabid thing he used to love and call his wife. What had she become. He couldn't deal with this much longer. He had tried being understanding of her grief stages. He tried to understand her denial.

He had been there to identify the body. Parts of the body, anyway. His son had been hacked into 7 pieces. Grisly work had been done on his little baby boy. The look of sheer terror on his poor son's face. Oh god…

"I'll call Doctor Shinley," he said quietly to his wife, the blood dripping from his face, down his dirty, white shirt. "We'll make an appointment. We're going to get you better, my love."

Her wild antics finally stopped, and she looked at him incredulously. "Get out," she murmured quietly, hatred deep in her hazel eyes. Her hair, so meticulously kept that day, was now askew, strands hanging over her face, looking grim and ghoul-like. "Get out of my house now! I don't need you anymore! I'm fine! GET OUT!!!"

She reached for the closest object, a vase on the hallway table full of fake flowers, and threw it at him, barely missing him. He backs away quickly, eyes in shock, staring at this woman who was no longer a woman, but something else. Something broken. She rounds him quickly, shoving him down the hallway. She shoves him violently again, slamming him into the door. "Get out."

He stares at her, angry and scared, a hand raising slightly in a last, desperate attempt to hold on to the woman he loved so dearly. He thinks better of it, nods slightly, his eyes defeated, resigned. He turns around, grabs the knob, and opens the door. He walks out of the house, down the driveway to his truck, then looks back. She stares out at him. He starts to head back, but she shakes her head slightly, and he realizes there is no way to reach her. He nods again, this time firmly, his jawline set, and walks away to his truck. She watches him get in, driving away slowly. She shuts the door, leaning heavily against it, then slides down, her body turning away from the door. Her back leans against the door, and her head slumps forward.

She opens her eyes, and she looks up determinedly at the object ahead of her. She puts one chilled arm ahead of her, drawing her knee and leg forward, then doing the same with the other arm and leg, crawling against the soft sand. Her body is now no longer shaking, her body feeling almost warm. Her eyes stare forward with determination, and she slumps onward. Her body is almost wasted. She knows this instinctively. All she knows is she will reach the end before her body gives up. Her mind, her will, is pure iron.

"Mommy?" a voice trails through her ears, fear in its voice. Her head jerks up, looking around. She is alone in the darkened house. Her eyes blurry from sleep and exhaustion. Was that a voice she had heard? Surely not. She stands up shakily from the floor, wiping the slobber from her mouth. She looks around, and then the memories flood back to her, bringing her back to her knees.

What have I done? Her hands grab the sides her head, tugging hard at her hair, pulling chunks of her hair out of the roots. The look her husband had given her before he had driven off. She looks around wildly, then down at her hands, the hair still in her closed fists. She drops the hair, and leans a hand against the door, trying to hold on to it like a lifeboat in the water she feels like she is drowning from. Then it happens. A knock, quiet, but there. The knock gets a little louder. Her hand recoils from the door as if it has burned her, her eyes bugging from her head. She stands up quickly, staring at the dark wood. She shakily reaches for the knob, her hand pulling back from it slowly, before slowly approaching it again.

"Who is it?" she asks the door.

"Open the door, Evelyn," an unfamiliar voice says through the door. "Open the door, for I need to speak with you on a most urgent manner. I know how to deal with what you are facing in your life. Open this door, Evelyn, and I will show you."

Against her better judgment, she turns the knob, and slowly opens the door. A small man stands in front of her, a lazy smile playing on his face. His dark skin, almost ebony, shines slightly in the moonlight, and his black eyes look at her with no emotion. His gaunt face is deeply shadowed behind the shine, and when he smiles, his white teeth sparkle predatorily. He has no hair to speak of, and he wears a crisp pin-stripe suit. A briefcase in one hand seems to be the only thing on him, which he holds against his chest.

"Whatever you're selling, I don't want it," Evelyn says quietly to him. His smile widens, and his face seems to brighten even more.

"Oh, Evelyn," he says in what seems to be a sympathetic tone, "I am not selling anything. I'm here to help you. I am here to take away the shattered existence you have, my dear. I promise, if you follow me, I can be a healing balm to your weathered mind. I can give you everything you want. Anything you want. I can take your shattered perceptions of your life, and bring them into whole again. Come with me, through this door, and I will show you how deep your perceptions can be fooled and destroyed. Let me help you destroy your perceptions of reality, and take you down this maniacal hole deep inside my mind. Leave your perceptions at the door, though, if you can… because you won't need them where we are going."

Evelyn reaches the object. Another door, this one round in every aspect of the word. Her body slumps forward, and her eyes close slightly, as her face leans against the door. She reaches up feebily, her hand barely grasping the handle, and pulls down. The handle doesn't budge. Locked.

"No," she croaks out in despair. Her body falls the rest of the way to the sand, and she rolls on her back, her arms out wide, staring up into the bright green sky. The sun blazes on, with no heat to bring her from the brink. She's dying, and all she wants to do is sleep. "I'm sorry, Chase. I tried. I tried…"

Her voice trails into nothing, and her body passes out. As her vision dims out, a shadow passes over her and a voice whispers quietly in her ear. "Don't worry, Evelyn. I won't let you die here. There are so many more doors."

The circular door opens without a sound, and white light shines down upon the unconscious Evelyn. An unseen hand drags her into the white light, and the circular door slams behind her.