Kester Lanner had never liked doors. As a small boy, wide-eyed and duvet-wrapped, he refused sleep until his mother opened his bedroom door with a sigh. The thunder of the school toilet cubicle doors forced his skittish heart into arrhythmia, and the mere sight of his mother’s closed bedroom door threw him into an immediate state of loneliness. Fortunately, as he swelled into rotund young adulthood, fear deflated to scanty wariness, as he realised that doors were disappointingly mundane.
However, he’d never come across a door like this before. It was truly remarkable, and for all the wrong reasons.
More relic than modern business entrance, its surface was coal-smudged and splintered, with a tinge of odious decay. Its grubby demeanour, combined with a whiff of mildew, rendered it vaguely organic—as though sprouted from seedling instead of hinged by human hands. The surrounding alleyway was stagnant, simmering in the still afternoon air, and the silence steeped it in secrecy.
Kester surveyed it nervously, trying not to look too closely at the details. If he squinted, it looked just about acceptable. Quaint even, if he took off his spectacles and let astigmatism do its work. But, on close inspection, the spidery cracks, pock-marks, and gritty, crumbly bits were a bit too much to take in. He especially protested at the sight of the moss blossoming from the unspeakably greasy crannies. Bright against the gloomy wood, they were like tiny, mouldy limes, luridly acidic and indecently bold. All in all, it was not a door that he liked at all.
This can’t be right, he thought, tugging the letter out of his satchel. The gold-embossed letterhead glinted in the dusty light. Dr Ribero’s Agency, 99 Mirabel Street. And this was certainly that street. The mottled Victorian road sign on the red-brick wall confirmed it.
The letter had implied something grander, something with a bit more style. He’d imagined a stained glass affair, complete with polished brass letterbox and neoclassical pillars. Instead, a tumble-down building confronted him, without even a mounted plaque to announce the name of the business. It was unceremoniously wedged between a barber shop and a boutique selling voluminous hippy skirts, and had a shifty look about it, as though trying to squeeze surreptitiously between the two.
“Well, this is strange,” he muttered, looking around him. “Very strange indeed.”
He’d never even heard of Dr Ribero until two weeks ago. The name had been one of the last words his mother had said, as the disease pulled the final moments of life from her body. He remembered the night well. It was unlikely he’d ever forget it. It had been ten to midnight, and the moon, unnaturally bright, had sent a trail of milk-whiteness across the bedspread to his mother’s upturned head.
“You must find Dr Ribero,” she had said, eyes urgent-bright, clutching his hand in hers. “I ask nothing else of you, my boy. Only that you find him. Find him and tell him who you are.”
Who this mysterious man was, or why his mother had insisted that he be found, remained an enigma. She had died only a few moments later, her wheezes subsiding to hollow silence. All was quiet, and the room the more dreadful for it. Kester had not wept; only remained at her side, still holding on to her hand, which gradually turned icy as the next day rose behind him.
In the solitude following her death, he forgot her final words, submerged in the grief of losing his only parent. However, a few days after, when he had a chance to compose himself, he found himself recollecting that strange, foreign-sounding name. In his practical way, he had immediately set about searching for her leather-bound address book.
He located Ribero’s name straight away—the only “R” in the book. There was no phone number beside it, only a tightly folded, official-looking letter tucked into the page. It was a strange note, indicating a level of intimacy between sender and recipient, but beyond that he couldn’t discern much, only the name and address of the mysterious agency. A search on the internet revealed nothing. Likewise, a visit to the library and a flick through the business directories drew another dead end. Who is this strange man? he wondered. And how had Mother known him? In spite of his grief, which was still raw, his interest was piqued.
And so it was that he found himself here, a fortnight later, armed with nothing more than his toothbrush, a change of clothes, and a book, standing outside the curious door.
It doesn’t look like much of a business, he thought. He peered through the window of the shop next door, hoping to see a member of staff to whom he could ask a few questions. However, he couldn’t see a soul through the tie-dyed blouses and velvet waistcoats, only his own owlish reflection staring back at him.
Kester was only twenty-two, but his image suggested older; wispy hair already starting to thin, watery eyes floating behind thick spectacles, not to mention the paunch tucked uncomfortably into his ironed slacks. He was the very epitome of middle-aged academic, squeezed inexpertly into a younger man’s body. He turned away, refusing to dwell on his appearance, and focusing instead on the problem at hand. He’d travelled a long way. Should he simply retreat, board the train, and go home again? Exeter was nicer than he’d expected, with its squat cathedral and swarming streets. Its people bobbed along pavements like contented honey bees, and, in spite of his melancholic mood, he was reluctant to leave it so quickly. The city’s blend of traditionalism and modernity soothed his spirit in a manner that he hadn’t enjoyed for many months, making him feel a bit more like his former self.
However, this forgotten alleyway reeked of an earlier era. The twenty-first century hadn’t touched its cobbled streets. The atmosphere of the Dickensian era still roamed unabated, uninterrupted by modern glass frontages or neon signs. It hung from the wrought-iron lamp posts and the dark beams overhead. It pressed against him in the very weight of those red-bricked walls.
Edging forwards, he studied the door more intently and pondered what to do. There was no intercom, no bell, no buzzer to alert the people inside of his presence. It went against every ingrained rule of etiquette to rap upon such an uninviting entrance. But rap he must, if he was going to solve the mystery of the strange Dr Ribero. Delicately, he knocked. The door felt oddly spongy underneath his fist, like brine-soaked wood that had dried out in the sun. Kester decided unreservedly that this was the most unpleasant door he had ever encountered in his twenty-two years of life.
There was no answer. The alleyway lingered with the echo of his fist. Somewhere nearby, a bird cawed, taking off in a clatter of feathers. He shivered, in spite of the afternoon’s warmth.
So, what am I supposed to do now? he wondered. I’ve spent fifty quid on a train ticket, forty pounds for a room for the night, and it doesn’t even look like the building’s occupied. It was frustrating, but also a relief. The whole experience thus far had been far too surreal for his liking, and now he felt that he had licence to depart with a clear conscience.
I tried my best, Mother, Kester thought. He smoothed his sweaty fringe and gave the door a final once-over. Obviously it just wasn’t meant to be. He turned to leave.
A strange feature in the centre of the door caught his attention, and he narrowed his eyes, surprised. A perfectly circular knot sat roughly at eye level, darker than the surrounding wood, indeed, almost ebony in appearance. He could have sworn it hadn’t been there before, though now, he doubted his own senses. After all, it had been a long journey from Cambridge, and he was exhausted, both mentally and physically. Perhaps it had been there all along, and he had simply missed it? It was unlike him not to notice a prominent detail like that, he took pride in his observational skills. My little Kestrel, his mother used to call him. Always scanning the surroundings like a bird of prey.
Instinctively, he brushed it with his index finger, noting its peculiar glassy smoothness. It felt warm and glowed a little, as though lit from within by a lightbulb. Feeling a little foolish, he pulled his finger away furtively, like a child caught with his hand in a biscuit barrel. To his amazement, the door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.
Blimey, Kester thought, peering in. Now what do I do?
The meagre light of the alleyway revealed the beginnings of a narrow corridor, and not a lot else. A threadbare Persian rug formed a burgundy road into the blackness; a blood-red path into a rather eerie hallway.
“Hello?”
His voice wavered in the silence. It was tempting to turn away. After all, he had tried. He had travelled for hours to find this blessed business, and now, no one was in; if indeed anyone had ever been here. The place looked as though it had lain empty for years, decades perhaps. It had the cobwebby look of something long since forgotten, neglected and left to crumble away in the sombre hands of time.
The emptiness of the narrow corridor unsettled him, even spooked him a little. It was all rather strange, and as a general rule, Kester didn’t like strangeness. He preferred the predictable, the reliable, and the well-established. Anything that stepped outside those parameters he tried to ignore as best as possible. It was as his mother had always advised, when he’d awoken from nightmares as a child, “Turn your mind from it, Kester my love. Then, you’ll find that it’s simply not there anymore.” It was very tempting to follow that wise advice now, and return to the train station, go home, and forget all about it.
The smell of age wafted from the enclosed space with the musty scent of air that had spent too long sealed up in darkness. He glanced over his shoulder. The alleyway was still empty. Even the neighbouring shops appeared deserted. It was worryingly silent, as though someone had pressed a pause button, sealing everything into stasis.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he muttered. Shunting his black-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and trying not to dwell on the darkness too much, he stepped over the threshold.
It was noticeably stuffier inside, and sweat prickled at the back of his neck. Beside him, remnants of parchment-dry wallpaper peeled and curled like dead ferns. The ceiling was low, so low that if he were to extend his arm, he would be able to place his palm easily on its surface. It was an unpleasant space, hot, dusty, and stale—and it reminded him of a tomb.
The dead end at the back of the passageway loomed in the shadows, confusing him. Instead of the expected door leading to offices, there was the vague outline of a spiral staircase, coiling snake-like in the corner. It looks like something waiting to pounce, he thought, tugging at his collar. I don’t like this one little bit. He felt as though he’d stepped into the underworld itself.
He crept along the Persian rug, tiptoeing deliberately over the places where footsteps had already worn holes through to the floorboards.
“Hello?” he called out again, louder this time.
There was still no answer. He scarcely knew what to do. Nerves and a sense of impropriety stopped him in his tracks, and he looked uncertainly at the staircase, unsure how to proceed. What in god’s name am I meant to do? he wondered, fiddling anxiously with the straps of his satchel. I don’t want to burst in on this Dr Ribero uninvited. If indeed he’s actually here, which I seriously doubt.
And, in truth, he was feeling more than a little uncomfortable. The narrow corridor was oppressive, the walls seemed ready to squash him like a bluebottle, and his heart was beating faster. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Normally, Kester had his late mother’s calm demeanour, combined with a quite remarkable lack of imagination. Fear of the unknown was not an emotion that generally troubled him, as he seldom ever thought about it. Superstition and the supernatural were only fanciful concepts for him, nothing more, nothing less. However, the events of the last fortnight had shaken his sensible foundations, leaving him more sensitive than usual. His normally sturdy brain had been shaken, rocked like a ship lost at sea.
Right, he thought firmly, straightening his spine and staring at the stairs. I’ve come this far, I’m inside the building now, so I may as well carry on. After all, what would Mother think if she could see me now? As a matter of fact, he knew perfectly well what she would say. He could almost hear her soft voice now, gently urging him to continue, to find that bravery deep within him. She had always had such faith in him, even when he had none in himself.
Kester gulped, suddenly lost in the memory of her. She had always been his most devoted supporter: giving him a standing ovation when he wheezed in last in every school sports day race, and whooping with delight when he was given his degree certificate at Cambridge, in spite of the sombre silence. A strong sense of her presence came to him now, lingering behind him and shooing him tenderly into the darkness. It made his heart heavy with her loss once again.
Do it for her, if not yourself, he thought. After all, it was her last wish. She said to find Dr Ribero. And now you’re here, you’d best go and find him, whoever he may be. Judging by the state of this place, you’re not likely to find him unless he’s a skeleton, propped up in the rooms upstairs.
With that unpleasant thought in mind, he began to climb. The first step of the spiral staircase clanged under his polished shoe, echoing into the blackness above. Unnervingly, the stairs simply disappeared into utter blackness. He had no idea what might be lurking up there, if indeed there was anything up there at all. Still, he knew that the only way of finding out was to venture upwards, despite the fact that every part of him really didn’t want to. He ascended, setting off a discordant din of metallic bangs and leaving the last of the light behind him.
Who is this peculiar man, and why on earth does he choose to work in such a hovel? he wondered as he climbed. The building was obviously ancient, at least three or four hundred years old, and, Victorian staircase aside, didn’t look as though much had been altered since the time it was built. Many old buildings had charm and personality—this wasn’t one of them. So far, all he could detect about this crumbling monstrosity was that it looked ready to be condemned and demolished. Kester wasn’t particularly sensitive to atmosphere, but even he could detect something hostile, watchful, and downright eerie about the place. Had he not made a solemn promise to his mother, he’d have walked straight out again.
At last, Kester arrived at the final stair. Panicking, he groped for a wall—anything to provide him with clues about his surroundings. Aside from a dim semi-circle of light coming from the stairwell, he was lost in blackness; he couldn’t even begin to work out where he was, or for that matter, who was up here in the dark with him. He shivered at the thought.
“Is anyone there?” he called. “I’m looking for Dr Ribero, am I in the right place?”
Once again, silence was the resounding response. It’s rather like one of those horror films, he fretted, not that he had much taste for the genre. I suppose this is the point where the unseen monster leaps out of the shadows and starts doing dreadful things to my person. Well, that’s a nice thought, isn’t it?
Fighting to remain calm, he squinted around him. Somewhere in the dense darkness, he could make out the tiniest line of light running along the floor. Aha, a door, he thought, with a sense of triumph. So someone is here after all. I wonder why on earth they didn’t come out to greet me when I called out?
He marched towards the glimmer of light, and pushed at the hard surface that met his outstretched fingers. To his surprise, it immediately gave way under his touch, swinging open into the room beyond.
Kester blinked in the sudden light and gawped. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but this certainly wasn’t it.
“Hello?” he stammered, eyes widening. His greeting was met with only silence.