Behind the Mausoleum's Door

“There was only one rule: don’t open the door.” The estate lawyer shuffled the yellowed pages of my grandparents’ will together. “Well, at least that seemed to be the general idea. They wrote it everywhere.”

I looked down at the documents and saw “DON’T OPEN THE DOOR!” scrawled all over in red ink. “Which door?”

“To the, uh, mausoleum.”

“Mausoleum?”

“Yes, your grandparents left you a historic church and graveyard.”

“I inherited a graveyard? Lovely.”

Two weeks later, I stood in knee-high weeds in front of an old brick church with dirty stained glass windows and holes in the roof. Amongst the weathered half-toppled headstones, a small marble building glistened in the morning sun. I picked my way over to it.

Towering stone gargoyles flanked the entrance and strange symbols were carved into the masonry. I ran my hands over the massive wrought iron handles, which were fashioned in a mathematical fractal pattern. They were chained shut. I sighed, picked up the bolt cutters, and removed the chain.

The stale air hit me as I wrenched the doors open. It was nearly empty; no one was interred here. I scoffed and went inside. In the middle of the room stood a giant, mechanical, altar-like box with a copious amount of buttons. Topping it was a golden double ouroboros sculpture: two circular snakes entwined together, each devouring the other’s tail. Underneath the statue were numerous numbered dials.

I stepped up to investigate, but it was too late. My foot trod upon a golden plate embedded in the floor, a pressure switch that swung the doors shut. A low hum and ticking filled the darkness. The statue glowed and some of the dials spun backwards. The altar vibrated; waves of light twisted all around me. I had stepped into a time machine.