The Red Door

Every night at exactly 11:47, the old clock in Grandma Laurie’s hallway stopped.

Myuni noticed it her first night at the house. The second hand would reach the same spot, tremble, and freeze.

By morning, the clock would be ticking again.

When Myuni asked about it the next morning, Grandma Laurie stopped pouring her coffee.

Only for a second.

Then she continued.

“Old things have their habits.”

“Does it always stop at 11:47?”

Grandma Laurie set the coffee pot down a little too carefully.

“For a long time.”

“Why?”

Laurie looked toward the hallway, but not directly at the clock.

“Some things don't know when to move on.”

Then she picked up her mug and changed the subject.

That answer only made Myuni more curious.

So on the third night, she waited.

At 11:46, she slipped into the dark hallway and stood beneath the clock. Moonlight spilled through the window. The house was silent except for the steady ticking above her.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Then 11:47 arrived.

Silence.

Myuni pulled over a chair and climbed onto it. Up close, she noticed something strange.

The clock wasn't sitting flat against the wall.

She lifted it carefully.

Behind it was a tiny brass key.

Her heart began pounding.

She took the key and searched the hallway. It didn't fit the desk drawer, the cabinet, or the old wooden chest downstairs.

Then she remembered the attic.

Grandma Laurie had only one rule in the house.

Never go into the attic.

Myuni climbed the stairs anyway.

At the top, she found a narrow door with a brass lock.

The key fit perfectly.

Click.

Inside, the attic smelled of dust and cedar. Boxes covered the floor. Old furniture sat beneath white sheets.

In the far corner was a small blue suitcase.

Myuni stopped.

Her name was written across it.

Not her last name.

Just Myuni.

She opened it.

Inside were dozens of letters tied together with a faded red ribbon. Every envelope was addressed to her.

The first letter had been written on the day she was born.

Myuni unfolded it.

Dear Myuni,

If you're reading this, you've discovered the secret your grandmother promised to keep for me.

Myuni stopped breathing for a moment.

She recognized the handwriting.

It belonged to her mother, who had died when Myuni was three.

There were eighteen letters in the suitcase, one for every birthday up to her eighteenth.

At the bottom was one final envelope.

On it were the words—

OPEN THIS ONE FIRST.

Myuni tore it open.

Your grandmother didn't hide these letters because she wanted to keep them from you.

I asked her to.

I wanted you to find them yourself when you became curious enough to search, brave enough to break a rule, and old enough to understand why some secrets aren't meant to stay hidden forever.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

Myuni turned.

Grandma Laurie stood in the doorway.

She wasn't looking at Myuni.

She was looking at the suitcase.

For a moment, something passed across her face that Myuni couldn't understand.

Not anger.

Not surprise.

Something closer to shame.

“You found them,” Grandma said.

Myuni held up the letter.

“Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“I promised I wouldn't.”

“Mom asked you to hide them?”

Grandma's eyes finally met hers.

“She asked me to let you find them when you were ready.”

“How was I supposed to know when I was ready?”

Grandma gave a small, tired laugh.

“That was always the problem, wasn't it?”

“What was?”

But Grandma looked away.

Myuni glanced toward the attic stairs.

“Why does the clock stop at 11:47?”

Grandma Laurie picked up one of the letters.

“That was the exact minute you were born.”

Something about the way she said it bothered Myuni.

It didn't sound like someone remembering a happy moment.

It sounded like a confession.

Down in the hallway, the old clock suddenly began ticking again.

And for the first time in fifteen years, it didn't stop.

Myuni stared at the letters.

“There are eighteen.”

Grandma Laurie nodded.

“But I'm fifteen.”

“I know.”

Myuni picked up the letter marked 16.

“Then why are these already written?”

Her grandmother sat on an old wooden trunk. Suddenly, she looked much older than she had downstairs.

“Your mother knew she was sick long before anyone told you.”

Myuni's fingers tightened around the envelope.

She wanted to open it.

Instead, she put it back.

“What did she write?”

“I don't know.”

Myuni looked at her suspiciously.

“You never read them?

“No.”

“Not even one?”

Grandma shook her head.

“I promised her I wouldn't.”

Myuni put the letter back into the suitcase.

“I guess I forgot she was sick for that long.”

Grandma's expression changed.

“Don't say that.”

Myuni frowned.

“Say what?”

Grandma seemed to realize how sharply she'd spoken.

“Nothing.”

“You got mad because I said I forgot?”

“I didn't get mad.”

“You kind of did.”

Grandma stood.

“It's late.”

“Grandma—”

“Some things are better left alone until you're ready for them.”

There it was again.

Ready.

Myuni didn't know why, but she was beginning to hate that word.

That night, she carried the blue suitcase to her bedroom and placed it beside her bed.

Then she read the first fifteen letters.

Her mother had written about everything.

Her first day of school.

Her first best friend.

The first time someone would break her heart.

Some letters were funny.

At some point, you'll probably decide your grandmother is hopelessly old-fashioned. You'll be correct.

Others made Myuni cry so hard she had to stop reading.

But something bothered her.

Her mother kept mentioning a place called Bellweather.

In the letter for Myuni's seventh birthday—

Someday, Grandma may take you past Bellweather. Don't ask questions yet.

In the letter for her tenth—

If you ever see the red door, remember that it isn't dangerous.

And in the fifteenth—

You're almost old enough to know what happened there.

Myuni read that sentence three times.

Then she looked at the unopened letters.

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

She knew she shouldn't.

But hadn't her mother said she was curious enough to search and brave enough to break a rule?

Myuni reached for the eighteenth letter.

A knock came at the bedroom door.

She jumped.

Grandma Laurie entered carrying two mugs of hot chocolate.

Her eyes immediately fell on the envelope in Myuni's hand.

“Don't.”

It was the first time Myuni had ever heard fear in her grandmother's voice.

Myuni looked down at the envelope.

“You know which one this is?”

Grandma stopped.

Neither of them spoke.

“You said you never read them.”

“I didn't.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I know what your mother intended you to learn at eighteen.”

Myuni slowly lowered the envelope.

“What is Bellweather?”

Grandma's face changed.

Her gaze flicked toward the fifteenth letter.

Myuni noticed.

“I didn't tell you which letter mentioned it.”

Grandma Laurie went completely still.

Rain tapped softly against the window.

“Myuni—”

“What is Bellweather?”

Grandma placed the mugs down.

For several seconds, she didn't speak.

Then she sat beside Myuni.

“Bellweather was your mother's home.”

“This was Mom's home.”

“No.”

Grandma looked toward the bedroom door as if making sure nobody else was listening.

“This was the place she came after she left.”

“Left where?”

Grandma took a slow breath.

“Bellweather Children's Home.”

Myuni frowned.

“An orphanage?”

“Something like that.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Bellweather took in children whose families couldn't care for them.”

“Mom lived there?”

“For six years.”

“Why didn't she ever tell me?”

“Because she hated talking about it.”

Myuni thought about the letters.

“The red door.”

Grandma's expression changed again.

“What about it?”

“Mom said it wasn't dangerous.”

Grandma stood so quickly that one of the mugs nearly tipped over.

“It's late.”

“Grandma.”

“We'll talk tomorrow.”

“Where is Bellweather?”

But Grandma Laurie was already walking away.

At the doorway, she stopped.

“Promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don't look for it.”

“Why?”

Grandma kept her back to her.

“Because some things hurt less when you leave them alone.”

Then she closed the door.

Myuni waited until she heard her grandmother's bedroom door shut.

She counted to one hundred.

Then she opened her laptop.

She searched for Bellweather Children's Home.

Nothing.

She tried adding the name of their county.

Nothing.

She searched old newspapers.

Still nothing.

It was as though the place had never existed.

Myuni was about to give up when she noticed something tucked inside the fifteenth letter.

A photograph.

She hadn't seen it before.

Six children stood outside a huge stone building.

Her mother was one of them.

She looked about twelve.

On the back, someone had written—

BELLWEATHER, 1998

And underneath—

There were seven of us.

Myuni turned the photograph over again.

Six children.

She counted twice.

Six.

Then she noticed the upstairs window.

A face was watching them from behind the glass.

The seventh child.

Myuni brought the photograph closer.

Her stomach dropped.

The child in the window looked exactly like her.

Not similar.

Exactly.

Same dark hair.

Same eyes.

Even the tiny birthmark beneath her left eyebrow.

Myuni nearly dropped the photograph.

That was impossible.

The picture had been taken years before she was born.

She flipped it over again.

There was another line of writing at the very bottom, so faded she had missed it.

This time, she recognized her mother's handwriting.

Myuni, if you find this before your eighteenth birthday, Grandma couldn't stop you.

Below it was an address.

And one final sentence.

Whatever you do, don't let the girl behind the red door know your name.

Myuni stared at it.

Then she got out of bed.

She crossed the hallway and knocked on Grandma Laurie's door.

No answer.

“Grandma?”

She opened it.

Laurie was sitting awake on the edge of her bed.

She hadn't changed into her pajamas.

It looked almost as though she'd been waiting.

Myuni held up the photograph.

“Where did you get that?”

Myuni stopped.

Grandma hadn't even looked at it.

“You know what this is?”

Laurie finally raised her eyes.

Myuni placed the photograph on the dresser.

Grandma immediately turned it facedown.

“How did you know?”

“I've seen it before.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“Were you there?”

Grandma looked at her.

Before she could answer, the clock downstairs began striking midnight.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then, from somewhere inside the house, came a sound Myuni had never heard before.

Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Not at the front door.

From the attic.

Grandma Laurie's face went pale.

“Get your shoes,” she whispered.

“Why?”

Another three knocks sounded above them.

This time louder.

Grandma grabbed Myuni's arm.

“Because I was wrong.”

“About what?”

A floorboard creaked in the attic.

Then another.

Someone was walking toward the attic door.

Grandma Laurie looked up at the ceiling.

“Bellweather isn't empty.”

The footsteps above them stopped.

Myuni stared at her.

“What does that mean?”

Grandma didn't answer.

The attic door creaked open.

“Shoes,” Grandma whispered. “Now.”

They hurried downstairs.

Grandma grabbed her coat, a flashlight, and the old brass key from the kitchen counter.

Then she stopped beside the hallway clock.

11:58.

Its second hand was moving normally.

Grandma opened the glass cover and reached behind the clock face.

There was a click.

A tiny compartment opened.

Inside was another key.

This one was red.

Myuni stared at it.

“The red door?”

Grandma nodded.

“You knew.”

“Myuni—”

“You knew about all of this.”

Something upstairs slammed against the attic door.

Grandma grabbed the key.

“We don't have time.”

They ran.

Outside, rain hammered the driveway.

They climbed into Grandma's old car, and she sped away before Myuni had even fastened her seat belt.

For several minutes, neither spoke.

“Where are we going?” Myuni finally asked.

“You already know.”

“Bellweather?”

“Yes.”

“You told me not to look for it.”

“I was hoping we had more time.”

“For what?”

Grandma tightened her hands around the steering wheel.

“For you to remember.”

Myuni stared at her.

“Remember what?”

Grandma glanced at her.

“You weren't born fifteen years ago, Myuni.”

The words seemed ridiculous.

Myuni almost laughed.

“What?”

“The girl in that photograph wasn't someone who looked like you.”

Grandma swallowed.

“It was you.”

Myuni felt suddenly cold.

“No.”

“You lived at Bellweather with your mother.”

“No.”

“You were one of the seven children.”

“Stop.”

“Myuni, listen to me.”

“My mother was a kid in that picture!”

“She wasn't your mother then.”

Myuni turned toward her.

Grandma's eyes were wet.

“She was your sister.”

The car seemed to become completely silent.

Myuni couldn't speak.

Finally, she whispered, “You're lying.”

“I wish I were.”

Grandma drove on through the rain.

“Bellweather wasn't an ordinary children's home,” she said. “The people running it were studying memory. They believed painful memories could be removed from children.”

Myuni stared through the windshield.

“They experimented on us?”

Grandma didn't answer immediately.

“On the seven of you.”

“What happened?”

“Something went wrong.”

Grandma's voice trembled.

“The other children grew older. You didn't.”

Myuni looked at her hands.

“That doesn't make sense.”

“No one understood it. Every few years, you would begin aging normally again. Then you'd become sick. You'd sleep for days.”

Grandma looked at her.

“And when you woke up, you were young again.”

Myuni shook her head.

“No.”

“Your memories disappeared with it.”

“No.”

“Your sister escaped Bellweather with you. She was sixteen.”

Myuni thought of the woman she remembered as her mother.

Birthday cakes.

Bedtime stories.

Being carried when she was tired.

“She raised me.”

“She loved you,” Grandma said. “She knew you wouldn't remember being sisters, so she became whatever you needed.”

Myuni began crying.

“She was my mother.”

“Yes,” Grandma said softly. “She was.”

Myuni wiped her face.

“You keep saying they.”

“What?”

“You keep saying they believed memories could be removed. They experimented on us. They didn't understand what happened.”

Grandma's grip tightened on the wheel.

“You talk like you knew them.”

No answer.

“Grandma.”

“I knew some of the people there.”

“How?”

“We're almost there.”

“That's not an answer.”

“No,” Grandma whispered. “It isn't.”

The road narrowed.

Trees crowded around them.

Then Myuni saw it.

A huge stone building stood beyond a rusted iron gate.

Bellweather.

Most of its windows were broken.

Vines covered the walls.

And at the center of the building was a bright red door.

Grandma stopped the car.

“Stay close to me.”

They crossed the overgrown grounds.

Myuni kept looking at Grandma.

Laurie wouldn't look at the building.

Not really.

Her eyes stayed on the ground.

The path.

The door.

Anywhere except the windows.

Like she'd walked this path before.

Many times.

The red door had no handle.

Only a keyhole.

Grandma inserted the red key.

Click.

The door opened.

Behind it was a staircase leading underground.

The air smelled damp and metallic.

Grandma stopped at the top.

For one strange moment, she couldn't make herself take the first step.

“Grandma?”

“I'm fine.”

She wasn't.

They descended.

At the bottom was a long corridor.

Seven doors lined the walls.

Numbers were painted above them.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Grandma stared down the corridor.

Myuni noticed her lips moving.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You were counting.”

Grandma looked at her.

Then away.

Door Seven stood open.

Inside was a small bedroom.

A child's bed.

A wooden desk.

Drawings covered the walls.

Myuni stepped closer.

Every picture showed the same thing.

A girl.

A clock.

And a woman with dark hair.

Her sister.

Her mother.

Then Myuni noticed words scratched into the wall.

MY NAME IS MYUNI.

Again.

MY NAME IS MYUNI.

Hundreds of times.

Myuni touched the writing.

A memory flashed through her mind.

Bright lights.

A needle.

Someone screaming.

Her sister holding her hand.

Don't tell them your name.

Myuni stumbled backward.

“I remember.”

Grandma reached for her.

“What?”

“The red door.”

Another memory.

Seven children sitting in a circle.

A doctor asking questions.

What's your name?

The children answering one by one.

Then Myuni's turn.

Her sister shouting—

Don't say it!

Myuni looked at Grandma.

“Why couldn't I tell them my name?”

Grandma didn't answer.

A voice behind them did.

“Because names anchor memory.”

Myuni turned.

A woman stood in the corridor.

She looked about thirty.

Dark hair.

Dark eyes.

A tiny birthmark beneath her left eyebrow.

Myuni couldn't breathe.

The woman looked exactly like her.

The girl from the photograph.

Except older.

Grandma stepped in front of Myuni.

“You.”

The woman smiled.

“Hello, Laurie.”

Something about the way she said Laurie's name made Myuni look at her grandmother.

Not Grandma.

Laurie.

Like they had known each other for a very long time.

Myuni whispered, “Who are you?”

The woman's smile disappeared.

“That depends.”

She stepped closer.

“What's your name?”

Grandma grabbed Myuni's hand.

“Don't answer.”

The woman laughed softly.

“You still believe that story?”

“What story?” Myuni asked.

“That I'm the dangerous one.”

Grandma pulled Myuni toward the stairs.

“We're leaving.”

The woman didn't follow.

Instead, she said something that made Myuni stop.

“Your sister's final letter wasn't in the suitcase.”

Grandma froze.

Myuni looked at her.

“What?”

The woman pointed toward Door Seven.

“Look under the bed.”

“Myuni, don't.”

But Myuni pulled away.

She knelt beside the little bed.

Underneath was an envelope covered in dust.

Her name was written on the front.

She opened it.

Inside was one page.

Dear Myuni,

If you've reached Bellweather, then Laurie has finally told you part of the truth.

Myuni looked up.

Grandma's face had gone white.

She continued reading.

Bellweather wasn't trying to make you forget.

It was trying to make her forget.

Myuni slowly lowered the letter.

“Grandma?”

Laurie said nothing.

The woman in the corridor stepped closer.

“Ask her who founded Bellweather.”

Myuni looked at Grandma.

“Who?”

Grandma closed her eyes.

“I did.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“You?”

“I was young,” Grandma whispered. “I thought we could help children survive terrible things. Remove the memory, remove the pain.”

Myuni stared at her.

Then she remembered.

Part 2 editor.reedsy.com/s/t0fve6b