The Missing Doorknob

Astrid walked down the narrow aisle of the second landing, having just collected the two bound books that appeared in the chute that led to her small library. Her fingers glided over the mahogany balustrade, dancing over the spherical post cap and falling onto the handrail of the steps that descended to the first landing. With the two books nestled into her hip, she walked down the first step.

There was a sudden sharp click from behind her. She stopped, but the clink of her spool heel swallowed the sound.

She turned to regard the dark mahogany door in the centre of the second landing. It hadn’t moved. The polish gleamed off the surface of the smooth wood. Under the lacquer, each grain lay straight — as if painted on, stroke by stroke — and disturbed only by the four identical panels that stretched the length of the door. Etched into these panels were four identical bunches of flowers — though the plants eluded Astrid — and in the middle of each panel a thin stem of a single flower wound left then right until the sepal, wide open with large leaves, gave way to a cluster of apricot-coloured petals packed in tightly to form a circular cluster. Smaller flowers, blooming with only a single layer of purple petals, grew from the base of the stem and wound around, branched off and embraced the larger flower.

Astrid tapped the books on her hip while her eyes scanned the door. She glanced down the left side; unsurprisingly, it was still without a doorknob. There were no indents or handles, no locks or keyholes, nothing to reveal where the distinct click had come from. It was as it had always been: unopenable.

Astrid might have once considered the door a wall, if, upon her first arrival in this small library, she hadn’t walked through it. The door had closed behind her, clicked into place and never opened again. She had looked over at the very first book sitting in the chute on the second landing, and, as easily as breathing air, picked it up and begun reading.

Looking away and over the handrail, Astrid considered the large glass-paned window spanning the length of the first landing to the roof. It remained a haze, giving way to nothing else, not even a shade of dark.

How long had she been in here? All she could remember was the books she had read. All 774.

Hitching the heavy books back up on her hip and laying a gentle hand over their covers, Astrid continued down the stairs.

The walls of the first landing, like the second, were covered in bookshelves. The 774 books were sitting regally, with the same lustre in their leather as when she had first found them. The leather of each binding was embossed with its own intricate markings and patterns. With only a glance, Astrid could remember each one.

As she scanned the bookshelves, her fingers caressed the books in her hands. These would soon take their place amongst the rest, but unlike her first arrival to the library, when the bookshelves were empty, she was now worried there wouldn’t be any room for them.

Near the large window was a grand table where Astrid placed the books down. The length of the tabletop was mostly occupied by a mirage of light reflecting off the mahogany, and the sides were entirely bare except for the two chairs at its furthest end.

Sitting down, she pulled the first book towards her. It was perfect. Each page was individually crafted and they were bound together with absolute care. The book appeared to be preserved in time, just like every book before; there was a fragility to it that made her heart weep.

Etched into the leather was a simple hourglass. Astrid’s fingers glided over it, tingling. They stopped just above the image, where, in gold etching, there was a simple name: Clarissa Gibson.

She stared down at the name and sadness bloomed inside her. She carefully opened the book to the first page. It read ‘1950–2005’.

She settled back into her chair and a sombre air settled over her. She turned the page and began to read.

Astrid gently closed the binding of the second book and placed it upright next to the first. Their musty eternal smell wafted around her as she sat back in her chair. She glanced at the bookcase on the wall. Directly in its centre was room for the two books. Just as every time before, when she thought the bookcase was officially full there was magically more room.

She stood, taking the two books in her hands, and walked to the bookcase. She placed the first on the left and the second on the right. She paused, her eyebrows crinkling. There was enough space for one more.

Behind her, Astrid heard a metallic whisper. She turned slowly, looking. Nothing was out of place. Her hands fell away from the bookcase, as she stood in front of the books she was keeping.

She retraced her steps back up the stairs and the whisper became a low grating moan. Her gaze snapped to the door: sturdy, unopened, perfect. Behind it, sounds bellowed.

Astrid froze.

Before her eyes, the lines of deep mahogany sank away into the wall, the flower etchings in the panels started twisting and fluttering and the wood in the centre of the door began morphing. It grew out from the wall, taking with it the gold impressions, and twisted and twisted until, with a deep, final groan, a small doorknob appeared.

There was a moment of silence. Astrid stood with baited breath. The door hinges groaned. They popped in exertion while the door, as if finally releasing a held breath, began to open.

Air rushed into the room, fluttering over the hair on her neck. The door opened slowly, but she could just make out the darkness behind it. It looked heavy, impenetrable, but as the wood gave way and the darkness swallowed the entranceway something else entirely appeared.

Standing in the darkness was a child. She had tight, dark curls dancing around her face, a petite nose and full red cheeks that were all too familiar. She wore the same overalls as Astrid and in her tiny little hands she clutched a book, perfect and beautiful.

Astrid’s eyes widened. She should have taken a step back, in awe or in shock, but calmness wrapped around her like a heavy blanket.

‘Finally… ’ Astrid muttered.

The child stepped over the threshold and into the library. Astrid and the child watched each other, small black eyes looking into hers. The child walked up to her, unwrapping a hand from the book and taking Astrid’s hands in hers. It was warm, comforting.

Astrid smiled. It had been so long that she had forgotten. This little girl, who was born crying and clutching at her mother’s breast and grew up to greet death too early.

She let the girl tug her back down the stairs.

The child led her to the grand table, where she dropped her hand and ran ahead to the two seats. Astrid watched the head of curls as the child climbed onto the unused seat and lugged the book up with her.

Astrid followed the little girl, her feet light on the floorboards. She rounded the corner of the grand table and glanced down at the book. Her heart lurched. Like the door to her library, the book was interwoven with vines and flowers. In its centre, in small printed text, read the name she had been waiting for unknowingly this whole time.

Astrid Welch.

Astrid turned to the little girl, who smiled at her. ‘Would you like to read it with me?’

Chantelle McColl is a literary fiction and magical-realism writer based in Melbourne. She ran the April Flash Fiction Challenge with Writers Victoria, has interned with Wild Dog Books and edited the photobook Sliding AUS Salty by Courtney Blythe. You can find her on Twitter at @CL_mccoll.