The Crooked Door

The Crooked Door

It is bright and sunny in Paddington today. The suburb is its usual buzz of noise and activity. This is where I live with my mother, in a small terrace house on a quiet side street lined by trees. Inside our home however the atmosphere is different. It is always solemn and silent inside our dismal rooms. My mother and I live alone, for I have never met my father. I do not even know what he looks like, although people quietly tell me, when I am away from my mother, that I am the spitting image of him. There are no photos of him anywhere in the house. I know this because I have looked when my mother is out shopping. She rarely goes anywhere else. My mother says he is gone and good riddance to him! My mother is a plain speaking, dour woman, straight up and down, as they say around here. However, there is one thing that she always says that I find curious, and to tell the truth, a bit creepy. She always tells me, ‘Now stay away from that crooked door, or you will end up with him.’ And she stares straight at me with her big eyes that really frighten me. ‘Now always be a good boy,’ she would say, ‘and be aware of that crooked door.’

From a young age I always had nightmares about that crooked door and now I am a grown man they still persist, about once a week. Let me tell you about my nightmare that has haunted me all these years, even intruding into my waking thoughts. Was my father a crooked man, or maybe even a murderer? These things repeat over and over in my mind. No wonder I have nightmares. The dream would always start with me, walking down a footpath. There would be cars driving by in a blur and people with indistinct faces walking about. They did not seem to be aware of my presence. There was also a young paper boy selling newspapers, taking everything in, except me. Not knowing where I was going, I kept walking down the grey road.

Then right in front of me I saw a crooked door. No, you are right. It would be too peculiar even for a dream if the crooked door just leapt out in front of me, wobbling alone by itself, unattached to a building. Even my dreams are not that odd! This door was huge, made of solid oak with its bottom brass hinge broken and flapping. This huge door was still haphazardly attached to its frame, the frame of a large imposing sandstone building, three stories high. It would have been impressive in its heyday, but now it had the appearance of having been derelict and neglected for many years. The lopsided door hung crookedly from one hinge, giving it a crooked appearance, just like the nursery rhyme, said one rational thought that I still had in my somnambulistic fog.

Smiling to myself and feeling brave, I squeezed through the narrow gap between the door and the frame and entered the building. My mind was racing with haphazard thoughts, will I find my father in here and what fate awaits me? Dimly I keep hearing my mother’s warning to beware of the crooked door. The room that I entered was pitch black. Light did not seem to enter through the large windows. I couldn’t see a thing, but then I heard something. Tap, tap, tap, again and again, like someone hammering. Usually this was the part of the dream where I always awoke, disorientated and sweating, smelling of fear.

After all these years of torment I decided that enough was enough. I was finally going to see a psychiatrist to seek help. Yes, I was starting to believe that I am going mad! At my appointment Doctor Mason assured me that this phenomenon is more common than I may think, and that I was not going insane. We just had to get to the bottom of it. Doctor Mason put me into a deep trance, and I relived my harrowing dream. As usual I awoke, panting, after hearing that hammering sound. Doctor Mason looked at me and rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. After a minute he said, ‘I have a colleague, a fellow psychiatrist and a good friend. He specializes in these types of cases?’ Still rubbing his chin, he continued, ‘Would you be willing to go out to his house in the country to consult him. His clinic is in an old gothic mansion, and you will have to stay there till he gets to the bottom of it all. You will be well looked after, and you will love the house.’

I replied all I wanted was to be free of this dream.

Doctor Mason added, ‘I’ll have a car pick you up this Saturday? Pack a bag with all of the things you need, as you may be there for some weeks, and I will take care of all the rest.’

That Saturday the car picked me up and we headed off into my unknown. After a two-hour rural drive, we were at the house. I was shocked for the place was more like a castle, and yes, very gothic in appearance, but unlike the mansion with the crooked door, this one was very well maintained. The car silently pulled up at the front door. The driver carried my bags and escorted me into a large entrance foyer inside the mansion. There to meet me was Doctor Steyn and his nurse, Anna. They escorted me to my well furbished room and told me they would start my treatment later that night.

They both came into my room right on six o’clock. I laid on my bed and Doctor Steyn gave me an injection in my arm. Slowly I fell into a deep sleep. My dream started once again in the familiar way. There I was walking down that foot path with cars passing and people walking by.

The news boy was selling newspapers was different though. He was shouting, ‘Read all about it. The Black Cat is back. The Black Cat is back, and he has struck again.’

The faces on the pedestrians were aghast. They are horrified. How could this be, they thought he was gone for good. ‘Lock everything up. No one is safe’ they called. They were all in a panic running helter skelter, without a purpose. From my past, I remembered my mother’s eyes when our neighbor once mentioned something about a Black Cat. Her eyes had a similar look of terror in them.

On reaching the crooked door once again, I ventured into the pitch-black room. At that moment, just like all the other times, I heard that tap, tap, tapping sound. I woke with a gasp. Sitting up in my bed I was shocked that there was no doctor or his nurse to be seen. Noticing a newspaper lying on the floor beside my bed, I leaned over to look at the large headline and photo spread across the front page. I could not stop looking at the photo. It was of a Judge of the High Court holding a wooden mallet.

The Judge’s name was Verndoor, whom prison inmates, who had appeared before him called “Crooked Door” as he had sent all of them through the crooked door of the prison, rarely to return. This time he was sentencing Johnny Drake, the son of the Black Cat to 20 years in prison. Summing up, Judge Verndoor said, ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like father like son.’

There was also a photo of my mother looking so sad with tears rolling down her face. I looked up at the window of my room and saw the iron bars. Hearing a noise at the door I saw a Prison Guard looking at me through a small window, ‘All is well in Cell Block 9’, he shouted. In horror my mind whispered:

‘There was a crooked man,

who walked a crooked mile,

he found a crooked six pence upon a crooked stile.

He brought a crooked cat who caught a crooked mouse,

and they all lived together in a little crooked house.’