His heart was pounding. He was sure had seen the doorknob turn. The three-foot door at the back of the cellar had been nothing but decoration, something his father had made for him as a child.
Could it have been a trick of the light? Perhaps it was the shadows extending as he opened the cellar door?
The miniature door swung open, hitting the frame with a loud thud. Mark jumped back, tripping up the last step. His blood pressure must have been through the roof. He put a hand to his chest, steadied himself and looked back to the open door.
Since he was five years old, there had only ever been a concrete wall, but a five year old could imagine whatever they wanted behind that door. Leprechauns, elves, a world for the tiniest people, or, as he got older, a murderer’s hiding place for his victim’s head (which would roll out, leaving a bloody stain across the floor).
What he saw now was not a concrete wall. Not even one of his childhood fantasies. Instead, a wall of reflective water, disobeying the laws of physics.
Mark approached cautiously, his dumbfounded expression staring back at him. He knelt down less than a meter from this phenomenal thing. The light from the small rectangular window reflected off the ripples like a disco ball. Mark raised a hand, held it in mid-air.
A skinny, long fingered hand came through. Grabbed his wrist and pulled him in.
KYLE SIMMS 