It all belongs to me :) Hope it's ok, constructive criticism welcome...
The Story of the Door
Audrey Eliot
It had been following him for weeks. It's knotted and gnarled body had tattooed itself into the young man's mind. Night after night, he dreamt of the dark viridian creature, gliding graciously through every demented nightmare, every joyous dream. Even during the bright hours of the day, when the winter sun beamed down onto the weathered cobbles, blinding the men and women of London, and when one could think only of the hot cocoa waiting at home, he saw it. It was Satan punishing him, or so he thought.
Months of gambling, travelling and drink had led dear Mr Crittle to an alley in the East End. On approach, he could here the distant playing of a violin. The melancholy sound rose in the air and drifted towards Mr Crittle amongst the smoke that was pouring out of a blackened window. As he listened, mesmerised, the smoke wrapped it's withered arms around him, and soon he was walking into the depths of the mysterious, magical place. Once through the old arch-way entrance, the smoke began to rise upwards, and Mr Crittle could at last see where his feet had taken him. Great, towering buildings lurched above him, some creaking in the wind. Black water trickled down the worn bricks, meandering across the pictures of women that clothed the crying walls. Every sound had been amplified. The plick plock of the water rang out like a bell toll, and the high pitched cackles of women ricocheted off of the cold stone.
Then he saw the violinist, sat slanted against a wall, his wiry grey hair sticking out at the most phenomenal angles. Mr Crittle turned, so he was facing the old man, and bent down. The eyes staring back at him were aged and morose, yet they looked like that of young child. Then, the wind changed direction. The smoke cleared from the once cold air, and danced out of sight. The high cackling and plick plocking stopped, as did the melancholy tune. The phlegmatic violinist sprung up from the pavement as if he had been sitting on a pin. As he did so, he spun on the spot, and his shoddy clothes transformed into flowing red and gold silks. His violin had disappeared and in its place was a majestic walking stick, covered head to foot in glimmering silver.
'Welcome,' said the violinist, and with a courteous bow and an outstretched arm, he summoned a bar with the snap of his skeletal fingers. A cacophonous crack echoed through the alley, and out of who knows where, a statuesque building was looming over their heads. It's lustrous bricks appeared to glow a bright emerald, and subsequently, seemed to supply the light for the rest of the street. A plain black door stood in the centre of the mammoth building, and above it hung a sign.
'The Wormwood,' Mr Crittle started. 'Bar Absinthe.' He paused. A green fairy materialized onto the wood and began to fly and prance around the wording, her flowing hair in luscious green, like willow branches, drifting in the water. The door abruptly flew open, and there, stood inside, was the violinist. Mr Crittle turned around in disbelief. He pointed at where the man had previously been, and then at where he now stood. His mouthed opened and closed several times before losing his footing and falling straight through the door.
He was greeted, by a dwarf, dressed from head to foot in women's clothing 'Bonjour,' said the dwarf 'Je m'appelle Monsieur Fournier. Bienvenue au Bar Absinthe'. And with that, he waddled away, jumped upon a stool, and sat on the counter of the Bar. 'Oh.' replied Mr Crittle. He followed the footsteps of the little man and stood opposite him. Jars and jars of green liquid lined the ebony shelves. He looked into the mirror behind them. The person who stared back at him was someone he didn't recognise. A mop of inky brown hair hung limp across the boy's face. Beads of sweat drip off of his dank locks and trickled their way down his sallow, fatigued skin. His eyebrows were knitted together in a perpetual frown. The eyes that sat under them were tired, dewy and searching. For what, who knows? The piercing green of them stood out against his pastel skin and white lips. They were his defining feature.
'You look troubled.' A black man in a bowler hat was now standing in the place of the dwarf 'Have a drink, if you will.' He put down a small shot glass onto the polished counter, and filled it with the same green liquid that lined the shelves.
As soon as he took a sip of the drink, his head began to spin and his eyes were overcome by fierce green flames. He started falling, and his ears were ringing with the plick plocking and cackling yet again. Screams began to mingle with the laughter, until he landed on a cold, black floor.
Mr Crittle pushed himself up on his elbows and stared down at his reflection in the floor. He leant closer to it, so close that his nose touched its surface. As it did the floor began to ripple like water. Mr Crittle leant in further, fascinated, until his whole head was submerged by the water. A piano appeared before him, formed from clouds of colour that were drifting through the abyss. Around the piano, a room began to appear, and a young women began to run playfully through, leaving a trail of colour as she went. Mr Crittle stared in wonder. That was his old home. The scene changed. He was sat at a table in a dark room. Men smoking cigars sat all around the table, cards in their hands. They were all laughing. At him. He had lost. Lost his fortune. Again, the scene changed. Women danced all around him. Other men of his age were there as well. But there were older men too. All pointing and clapping for the dancing ladies. They started throwing money in the air. Mr Crittle lurched forward in the water and tried to grab the paper as it spiralled into the dark depths, but it disappeared. Disappointment overcame him. That's why he had found himself in a bar in the East End. He'd lost everything.
'Everything,' He could barely say the word. It slithered out of his mouth and lingered in his head, echoing on and on.
He sat on the floor, completely dry, for hours. Where was he? The shot glass was still next to him, yet the bar was nowhere to be seen. As the hours went by, voices started speaking to him, hissing in his ears. What they were saying he couldn't quite make out, but they were getting louder. The pandemonium of voices unbearable. Finally, giving in to the din, Mr Crittle squeezed his tired eyes shut, and drank the remainder of the absinthe.
When he woke again, something was touching his cheek. It was soft and cold, gently rubbing his face. Slowly, he opened his eyes. There was nothing there. Just a scintillating light. Whatever it was that was stroking his cheek had gone. He let out a small sigh as he rolled onto his back. He saw her then. A lady, clad in white. The dress she wore cascaded over milky body, and swept the floor behind her. She walked forward, revealing her bare feet and sat down opposite Mr Crittle. Her golden hair ran down in ringlets past her shoulders to her waist, and fixed in it was a veil, covering her celestial face.
He couldn't breath. He had never been so fascinated by any other living being. He couldn't see her face and he hadn't heard her speak a single word, yet he knew who she was. That's what he'd been waiting for. Yes, the money was gone. Yes, Aunt Margot never wanted to see him again. But what did it matter? He arose slowly, making sure not to lose his balance. As he did so, she mirrored him. He reached out for her and she did so too. However, her hand did not stop when his did. She carried on lifting her hand into the air until it met her face. The veil she wore was slowly moving with every precious breath she blew. She took the corner of the gossamer, and began to remove what was hiding her face, but as she did, the colour of her hair began to run like the dye of a book. She was disappearing just like the objects in the water. A force was pulling her away from him.
The noises of the outside world began to start, becoming more prominent as she vanished. A piano was playing at the back of his mind. The light had gone. There was complete darkness. The piano continued to play, crescendoing as he became more aware of his surroundings.
He was back. The bar was still there. So was the drag dwarf and the black man in a bowler hat.
'Wonderful isn't she?' declared the black man.
'I'm sorry?' replied Mr Crittle, more confused than ever.
'The drink. Absinthe is a wonderful thing. Takes you to the most magnificent places. Much better than what's out there.' He gestured to the door. Mr Crittle stared at him as he started wiping the counter free of the sticky remnants of alcohol. The violinist came and sat beside him.
'Do you know what to do now?'
'I think so. How do I find it though?'
'It will come to you.' the violinist simply replied.
Once again, the old man snapped his skeletal fingers, and the bar was gone. All that was there now was a dirty alley and a beggar-man violinist. Mr Crittle turned on his heel and trudged back towards the exit of the alley.
That was why the viridian creature was following him. It was the door the violinist was talking about. It would come to Mr Crittle eventually. For now though, it was just following him, tormenting him. Absinthe is not a wonderful thing. It makes you mad in desperation. It messes with ever fibre in your body. Mr Crittle knew that now.
He would see the woman again. He would meet her in the bright white again. Next time, he would melt away with her. All he had to do was wait for the door.