The Rusted Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. It's the same door that rusted shut ages ago. The one my mother doodled on when she was just a toddler. Five generations and the door remained closed to this day. I always wondered why the door was forbidden for almost two centuries. Even during our renovation years ago, that location was strictly off-limits to workers. What was behind that metal door shall always stay a mystery, but I desperately wanted to reveal it. It was my house now, and no one was around to hammer into me the importance of that only rule.

Days I paced in front of it. I even watched a few sunsets from my kitchen window as I did so. The curiosity gnawed at me day in and day out. It was right there at the tip of my fingers. But after so many years, could I break the streak of five generations? I could feel my ancestors rolling in their graves at just me thinking about opening the door.

What could possibly happen anyway? I release some ancient curse that causes my life to fall apart, or end the world. Or maybe find thousands of gold bars my great ancestors stashed away and be well off for the rest of my life. It felt like a real Schrödinger’s cat scenario. Should I open the door, or not?

After days of contemplation, I gathered all the tools I needed to break into the rusty door. After an hour of banging, scraping, and twisting, it finally budged. I rested a trembling hand on the handle, my palms slippery with the sweat coating them. I pulled open the door, my heart dropping at the sight. “My God!”