"I've... made a mistake." The pulse oximeter emits a quiet beeping. A faint, weakening beep, but it remains.
"We all make mistakes, Uncle Dave." You try to comfort your uncle. He's dying, he doesn't need to feel guilty with his dying breaths.
The hospice room is empty and cold. None of your family has come. Why would they? Uncle Dave is a weirdo and recluse. Your grandfather, his brother, doesn't even speak to him anymore.
"No," Dave chokes a bit. The cancer has made speaking very difficult for him. "Nobody's done this. I've led them like lambs to the slaughter. I've sold them out, all for my selfish gain."
You're only half paying attention. The old man is dying. Clearly, he has no idea what he's talking about.
"Yeah, that is pretty bad," You agree, "But like I said, everyone makes mistakes." With quaking hands, he pulls the oxygen mask from his face, glaring at you.
"You don't believe me. Look in the book bag." A frail, knobby finger points to a chair by his bed. There's a small book bag tossed into the seat. Curious, you search the bag. Inside, you find a mess of clothes, some toiletries, and an old leather bound book, held closed by a single strap.
"Take the book," He explains, "Go to my cabin. Your cabin, soon. It's where I wrote the Tales of Tamilor."
You cringe a bit at the name. Your uncle's failed high fantasy series, set in the magical world of Tamilor, has been a sore spot in your family for decades. Partially because the critics considered it lowbrow pulp, and partially because of the multiple, gratuitous, out of place sex scenes.
"Thank you," You reply, realizing he just willed his cabin to you.
"Shut up." He says. "I'm not giving it to you because I like you." You fall silent. Scowling, you sit back down next to the bed. The old man has a characteristic meanness to him, and his situation seems to have made him even less tolerable than usual.
No wonder no one else came.
"I'm giving it to you out of guilt. I'm.. I've.. Talimor..." He pauses to breathe. You consider dipping out of the room, and leaving the ornery old cuss to die alone. But you remember he just willed you a home and property, so you decide to stick it out. His voice rattles as he speaks.
"It was all real. All of it. Not a word of the series was fake."
"Wow, geez." You continue to humor him.
"Shut up. I know you don't believe me." He sneers. You roll your eyes.
"That kind of attitude is the reason you don't get invited to Christmas." You're tired of the old man's rotten attitude. You stand, intending to leave.
"No! Wait, I'm sorry." He motions for you to sit, and the pace of the pulse oximeter increases slightly. "I need you. I need you to correct the wrong I've done." One last time, you steel yourself, summoning up every scrap of patience you have. He coughs, and continues to speak.
"I traveled through a magical portal fifty years ago, to the magical land of Talimor,"
"I thought it was Tamilor," You cut him off. He waves a dismissive hand.
"I used a fake name for the books. It doesn't matter. Just, sh-... just listen. I traveled to a magical land using a portal in the basement of that cabin. While I was there I was... not the hero I portrayed in the books."
"Surprise."
"Shut up. Have you read the books?"
"Nope," You shrug. He glares at you.
"Read the books!" The dying man orders. "It will help you when you travel there. Listen, this is why I need you. I did... unspeakable things to their world. I endangered them, I... I made them worse, and then I just... left."
Involuntarily, you laugh. Shaking your head, you prepare a sarcastic reply, but you catch sight of his face. Tears stream down the old man's splotched and wrinkled skin. His visage is agony.
"I used them. They were my friends and I fled like a coward." He begins to sob, and his ancient, shaky hands come up to cover his face in shame. "For fifty years, I've been hiding in fear of what I did." You remain silent as he tries to explain, but his breath is catching. As the heart rate monitor becomes erratic, he pleads with you, his voice barely a whisper.
"Save them..."
Nurses push you out of the way, but you can't break eye contact with the terrified, wretched gaze of the dying man.
The old mountain road is muddy with rain. It drizzles slowly, lazily, almost spitting at you as you drive. You lost cell service several miles back, meaning you're without a map. As you start to think you've made a wrong turn, you spot the cabin through a break in the trees.
It had been six months since your Uncle Dave gave you the journal. You discovered the old leatherbound book was a journal not long after he had died, leafing through the pages out of idle curiosity. It did include supposed instructions for opening a 'portal to another world'. In fact, just about every page is riddled with writings about this supposed fantasy world. 'Volvsvaer' it's called in the journal. An even worse name than 'Tamilor'.
The cabin is inviting and homey, though cold. Constructed sometime earlier in the last century, the roughly worn logs of the little building are covered with moss near the ground. Some of the logs are slightly rotted or split, but surprisingly a good number are in decent condition. You grab your cooler and a flashlight, heading through the front door.
A thin layer of dust covers most every surface, and the air smells of mildew. You've brought a cooler packed with food, and the car trunk is full of other necessities. You packed for the worst case scenario, fearing the cabin would be completely uninhabitable. It's a pleasant surprise just how livable it is, despite being so far off the beaten path. The electricity still works, and water still flows from the taps. As you walk from room to room, little creaks and squeaks let you know the wood beneath the floor is still dry. Walking back out to the car, you unload what remains of your belongings, looking forward to a short vacation in the little cabin.
As night falls, you explore a bit outside with a flashlight. Cool night air gives you chills, but you enjoy this kind of weather. Walking around the back of the old Cabin, you check the integrity of the structure. There's a rusted electrical box that will require some WD-40 to open. You find a pile of firewood, so soaked and rotten it's no good for sure. As you're cursing your uncle for the rotten pile, you spot a dark shape, and shine your light on a pair of large double doors. You pull the doors open, cautiously descending into the dank basement. At the bottom of the stairs, the ground is bare concrete, and the air is sticky with moisture. Along the floor you glimpse flashes of rats or some other creature fleeing the beam of your flashlight, and the air reeks of wet earth. Shining your flashlight about, you located a string affixed to a single bare bulb. You're surprised that the bulb actually lights when you pull the string.
One side of the room is littered with clutter, rusty bicycles, metal fencing, nondescript plastic sacks. The opposite side of the room, in contrast, has a single, moldy, twin sized mattress leaning up against the wall. Struck by how much the mattress sticks out, you walk to it and nudge it with one hand. It doesn't move, so you give the mattress a firm nudge with your foot. The ancient mattress falls to the side, kicking up foul smelling dust into the air. Through the cloud of dirt and mold spores, you see it: a door.
A chill runs up your spine, leaving goosebumps down your arms. This is it, you think, only to correct yourself.
It's definitely just an old door. Nothing special here.
Turning the dingy brass knob, you pull the door open to reveal a blank concrete wall. You open and close the door a couple of times, its rusted hinges squeaking in protest. Crazy Old Uncle Dave, you think to yourself, laughing out loud. Once again ripping the string on the bare lightbulb, you extinguish the light and climb out of the cellar. In the cool night air, you shake your head again, disbelieving his crazy stories. Or perhaps you're trying to tell yourself not to believe.
Most of the next day is spent hiking and cleaning up the cabin. It's quite relaxing for you, being so far away from everything. After cooking a small breakfast, you notice that a couple of eyes on the stove don't work. You fiddle with them for about half an hour after eating, deciding that it'll be at least a trip to the hardware store to fix the burnt up elements.
Most of the bulbs in the cabin have blown and will need to be replaced. Before lunch, you walk through the cabin interior, flicking light switches, searching for functioning bulbs. Less than half of them work, which is why you were so surprised that the one by the magic door in the basement came on.
No, you remind yourself, not a magic door. Just a normal door.
