Page 4 - World of Darkness

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Dear ,
I did it.
I did what they say I did. I want you to know the truth, rather than spend your life wondering. The truth is
painful, and it will hurt you. I hope I have the nerve to write everything and send this to you.
I killed him.
I want you to know why.
I’d been working at the Globe for almost a year. “Janet Archer, girl reporter.” Her father’s pride and joy.
Ten-and-a-half months of sitting in my cubicle in the basement, typing obituaries and listening to the police
scanner. Ten-and-a-half months of city council meetings, zoning hearings, burglaries, drunken teenagers crash-
ing into telephone poles. I was warned in journalism class how working your way up the ladder takes pa-
tience. I didn’t think an entry-level job at a small city daily would get me a Pulitzer. I did think I’d have
something to show for it, though. Some clips, some features. But the editor wouldn’t give me anything meaty
except his hand on my knee when he’d had too much of his lunchtime pick-me-up.
I checked all those online job-finding sites, but they were a waste of time. Then one day I was flipping
through our very own anemic classifieds when I saw it, sandwiched between an opening at a pizzeria and a
recruitment ad for the Navy.
WRITER WANTED
Experienced and/or talented writer sought to help elderly recluse compose his memoirs. I’ve led a long
and unusual life and need the right wordsmith to tell my story. Only a curious, thorough and detail-oriented
scribe will do. Generous salary, flexible hours. Apply in person, 8 am-10 am, 133 Rath St., Ogdenburg.

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and I followed her into the room that seemed to take up the entire front of the house. Except for a single folding
chair, the room was empty. No carpet, just stained and scuffed wooden floorboards. The walls were white
once, I think, but had aged to a gray. There was a second door in the room. It was black and heavy and
closed. The windows had no curtains, just roller blinds that were pulled halfway down. The weak light of the
cloudy morning filled the room with the dreary ambiance of an unattended funeral.
There wasn’t so much as a cobweb on any of the walls or the ceiling. And the room had no smell.
“Wait,” the housekeeper told me, the only word I ever heard her say. I sat down slowly, wishing I had
brought some coffee. The woman walked out and closed the door. It was as gray as the walls. A few minutes
later I heard a vacuum cleaner running from somewhere deeper inside the house.
I sighed and settled into my chair. I tried to brush the wrinkles out of my slacks. I looked out the window at
the cracked pavement and uneven sidewalks, the bags of garbage waiting to be picked up and the half-
collapsed doghouse in the front yard across the street. I stood up and paced

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the black door. The knob was old and ornate, like something you’d see in an art deco hotel. I kneeled down
and looked through the keyhole, but it had been stopped up.
I felt something at my feet.
There was air blowing out from under the door, cold air that tickled the front of my ankles. I touched the
crack at the floor. It was just about as wide as my fingertips. And there was definitely cold, almost frigid air
streaming through.
I checked my watch. I’d been waiting for more than a half-hour. It was absurd. And yet I didn’t feel like
leaving just yet. After all, what was waiting for me out there that was more interesting than this? So I stood up
and rapped my knuckles on the black door. Hard.
“Hello,” I called out. “Is anyone there? I’ve been waiting here for over 30 minutes. Hello?”
There was no answer. I put my hand on the knob and turned. It moved silently, smoothly, more easily than
I expected. But when I tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge. It felt like it had been dead bolted from
the other side.

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