The Silver Door

NYCM Rhyming Story Competition 2024

Round 2: Ghost Story (2nd Place)

I.

He stood upon the crossroads, waiting.

Waiting there, I knew, for me.

His lonely lamp illuminating

Gleaming coins where eyes should be.

His stringy hair was grey and thinning,

Drooped across his ruined face.

He turned that face to greet me, grinning,

Bidding me to take his place.

I’d entered there in unwise dreaming,

Through the spectral Silver Door.

And once again, retreated screaming,

As I did each night before.

I fled through fields of asphodel,

Propelled along by urgent dread,

Searching for the Door until

I found myself awake in bed.

II.

Safe in bed but drenched in sweat.

I curse my trembling, weak-willed self.

My shaking hands, still dripping wet,

Grope about the bedside shelf.

I find the book that I’d kept hidden:

 Secret Ways to Walk at Night-

 The Secret Keys to Doors Forbidden,

 Secret Paths to Secret Sight.

I take the tome, now brown with age

But, fumbling, drop it on the floor.

It opens on a faded page

That I had somehow missed before:

The paths of which herein are spoken

 Are not meant for mortal men.

 Give care that any door you open

 Closes firmly shut again."

I tried recalling in my mind

If, when I fled the silent waste,

I stopped to close the door behind

Or left it open in my haste?

Foolish thoughts! This was not real.

I’d let my dreaming brain devise

The silver door, the endless field,

And tattered wretch with coins for eyes.

III.

I set about some mundane tasks,

Refresh and dress and flag a ride.

“Which road, my friend?” the driver asks

As, sweating still, I climb inside.

“Simply drive, I care not where.”

“First, close the door!” The man rejoins,

And from his rear-view mirror stare

A pair of gleaming silver coins.

I shout and startle in surprise.

The driver turns, “Are you alright?”

Concern in clearly human eyes,

“Perhaps you need a quiet night?”

Returning home, I seek repose.

My fever, pulse, and thoughts all race

And any time my eyes are closed

I see that awful leering face.

IV.

I find I can no longer sleep.

Desperately, I burn the book.

The visions still do not retreat.

I see him everywhere I look.

Seasons leave me destitute-

Bereft of sleep, and funds, and shame.

And when I spy the eyeless brute,

He has the gall to call my name!

Something deep within me snaps.

I roar and charge the coin-eyed man.

He tries to run. Surprised, perhaps?

I reach him well before he can.

Beat the blaggard ‘til he’s bleeding!

 Beat his ugly, eyeless head!

  Beat him and ignore his pleading!

   Beat, although he’s clearly dead.

The sudden rage, as sudden, passes.

Clarity descends once more.

I see a friend - He’s wearing glasses,

Lying lifeless on the floor.

What abject wretch have I become?

I clutch his broken form and weep.

My shaking, sweating frame grows numb

and, finally, I fall asleep...

V.

...Sure enough, there stands the door.

It’s open, streaming argent light.

I drag my dream-self through once more

And once beyond, I shut it tight.

On hands and knees, I cross the field

But only vacant silence waits.

Where is the thing that I unsealed?

Where is the dreadful, leering face?

Then giggling, I realise

The reason that we haven’t met -

I pluck and pop my useless eyes.

- I’d simply not become him yet.

The change is somewhat liberating.

Still, I’m not yet fully free.

And so, I stand at crossroads, waiting…

…For the fool I used to be.