"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.
The refrigerator still works, so after lunch you stock some of your food from the cooler into it. It's a bit grimy, and the drawers will need to be scrubbed with hot water. Unfortunately, the water heater is out, so you do your best to make a mental list of what you'll need to fix it. You pull apart the maintenance hatch on the water heater, visually inspect everything, checking to see if that element is burned out too. You've got a growing list of necessities for the next time you go into town.
Maybe you should check your uncle's journal, to see if there's anything you need for the ritual to open the magic door in the basement.
Lying on your back in a closet, staring up at the water heater, you shake your head. There's no ritual, you remind yourself, at least not a real one.
After supper, you take a quick, cold shower and lay down on the bed to read. It's a bit dusty, but the sheets smell alright and you brought your own pillow. You transfer one of the cabin's few functioning bulbs to the bedside table lamp and settle down for the night. When your eyes become heavy and you finally decide to turn out the light, you envision a long, relaxing week. You look forward to hiking the mountain trails, packing food out with you and cooking it on an open fire. You'll be alone to watch the stars at night. When you make your way back to the cabin, you can even try to open that magic door in the basement.
Your eyes remain fixed open until after midnight. That magic door in the basement. That damn door. You opened it, but you didn't do the ritual in Uncle Dave's journal. You don't need to do the ritual in Uncle Dave's journal. Uncle Dave was a crazy hoarder who drank, smoked, and gambled the family inheritance away. Just because he has a magic do-...
Sighing, you kick off the covers, pulling your tennis shoes on. From the car, you retrieve the old journal.
Looks like there's no sleep until you do this.
Your sneakers sink into the cold, moist earth as you pull the cellar door open. The single bare bulb suspended from the ceiling forces you to duck as you pass under it, tugging the string to illuminate the basement. The bulb pops, and you let out a groan. Fishing your flashlight out of your pajama pants pocket, you illuminate the old door. Journal in one hand, you face the closed door, irritated at yourself. You feel stupid. Crazy Uncle Dave is definitely having a laugh with you. You flip through the journal, stopping on page two, where Dave describes the magical ritual needed to open the magical door to the magical land of Volvsvaer.
With a spray paint can borrowed from a pile of rubbish nearby, you stoop to draw a circle on the floor, as described by the journal. The floor is dirty, and so you wipe away the grime, dirt and moss. Underneath the filth, you find the shapes from the journal have already been painted onto the concrete below the grime. After more wiping, you find every symbol described in the journal, perfectly laid out on the concrete floor. Several concentric circles, a set of symbols you don't recognise, and connecting lines running through everything.
Shrugging, you hope that's good enough. In one hand you hold the journal, preparing to read the incantation. The other hand you hold outstretched to the door, as described in the journal. The flashlight you pinch between your shoulder and neck, directing downward so you can read the journal. Feeling silly, you call out the words on the page.
"Palime, verca ingóle vende!"
Your face reddens with embarrassment, even though no one's around to see you. You stand silently, with nothing happening, and imagine your uncle laughing at you. Well, at least you can sleep now, you think. Absent-mindedly, you walk to the door and pull it open. A bare rock wall faces you, and you sigh deeply, rolling your eyes.
But wait a minute. The last time you opened the door, you found a smooth concrete wall, contiguous with the basement wall. This time, there's an uneven rocky texture to the wall. You bring your flashlight up and store the journal in your sweatshirt. Curiously running a hand over the rocky wall, you talk to yourself.
