Knock at the Door

Nobody noticed the house.

Too preoccupied with their own hectic lives, rushing hurriedly along the dusty road, barely a flicker of their gaze turned towards the towering brick wall, coy tendrils of ivy creeping over, finger-like, reaching down to point accusingly in their direction. No, the majority of their sight was directed towards the nearby shops. Even the lone stray dog, dishevelled and skeletal, seemed to avert its eyes, seemed to be intentionally blind to the wall that nobody noticed.
However, there was one, a solitary figure, who approached the rusty gate. A small girl, dressed smartly in a pristine Brownie uniform, hesitated for a moment with her hand on the latch. She was exhausted from what seemed like a lifetime of tugging a battered case of cookies from one door to the next all the way from the other end of town, and delicate beads of perspiration were busily forming liquid ribbons all over her scarlet face. As she struggled to catch her breath she deliberated whether or not to try selling cookies at this house. After all, it was so overgrown she couldn’t see if there was a house at all. To her young mind, the very idea of a house existing within the swollen expanse of wilderness she imagined the garden to be seemed ludicrous, even laughable. With a child’s logic she reasoned it would be a waste of effort to battle through an endless jungle for no profit.
But then again, what if there was a house? If there was, it would be the last house on the route. And she did want to win the prize for selling the largest number of cookies. One more measly house was well worth it. And so, with the promise of a prize set like stones in her pale blue eyes, the girl took a deep, vigorous breath and pushed open the gate.
Inside the gate. The dense trees, looming with dizzying height on all sides of the girl, were crushed together in the confined space. Even the bushes were twice the height of the girl, and hung over the narrow, uneven path like drunks slumped over a lamppost.
Long, trailing fronds tickled the girl’s hair playfully, causing her to leap back in fright, a single strangled shriek escaping her lungs. However, once she saw it was but a plant she shook herself furiously and continued with wary steps.
It was a hot day in the world outside the wall, the sun blazing fiercely onto the streets teeming with life and noise. Yet inside the garden the plant-life refused any entrance to the sun or the birds, and the air was as chilled, and as deathly silent, as a deserted winter night. The girl shivered as she tiptoed deeper and deeper into the frozen garden. The only noises that were apparent were the obnoxious clatter of the case on the loose pebbles, and the girl’s heart beating a frantic tattoo against her ribs. She became very afraid of what might be lurking in the petrifying density of the trees. Yes, many times did she glance back in fear, expecting deformed, leafy fingers to ensnare her plump neck and drag her, kicking and screaming, to a violent and woody death.

She breathed a carefully inaudible sigh of relief when she turned a sharp corner and came into view of the house. It was a large building, majestic and stately, made entirely of brick, and so overgrown with dark green ivy that it was merely the faceless black windows and the bright scarlet doorframe that betrayed it as something manmade. It seemed to be so choked by parasitic vines, seemed to blend in so perfectly with the cavernous depth of the surrounding thicket that it could not be described as a creation of man – so silent and baleful it appeared older than the sky.
As the girl approached the house she noticed how the paint of the grand front door was peeling badly, and the dust on the broad grey windowsills looked to be about three inches deep. For some reason this scared her – made her wonder what sort of person could live in a house which was in such an obvious state of neglect.
“Calm down, stupid girl,” she scolded herself primly. “It’s probably just a nice old lady who lives her, who’s just too busy to get ahead on the cleaning.”
With this optimistic thought in mind, the girl strode boldly forwards and knocked on the door, revelling in the booming sound the large iron knocker made. She waited patiently for a couple of minutes with her best “I hope I’m not disturbing you” beam plastered on her face then, when nobody opened the ancient door, knocked again. This time every passing minute seemed like a century. Accepting defeat the girl turned away, a slump in her shoulders and a sigh in her mouth, when she heard the click of a lock and the door opened silently.

The man that filled the doorframe was peculiar, yet unremarkable. A haze of silver hair grew unruly over his head. Bits of dirt clung resolutely to the straggled ends of his wispy beard, and set like jewels in his sunken, parched skin was a pair of the greenest eyes the girl had ever seen. He might have been tall if he hadn’t been stooped and hunched so severely.
“Um, sorry to trouble to you, sir,” The girl had been so distracted by the old man’s strange appearance that she had nearly forgotten the sale lines she had repeated a thousand times. “Would you be interested in purchasing a box of delicious, handmade cookies?”
The old man’s emerald eyes travelled down the Brownie’s body and up again. There was meat on her bones, perhaps too much. It would take a very long time – an afternoon, a day or perhaps more…but the man was hungry. Very hungry. He had eaten all the rats, apart from that fat one that kept getting away. Lousy bugger…but this would make a fine meal. No fur, so easier to skin, although the toes would be difficult. Nails are so tricky to remove…better than claws, though. There’s so much meat on her, it would be such a waste…
“Why don’t you come in,” the man said in a cracked, throaty voice, licking his bottom lip with a whip of his tongue, “and we can discuss a deal.”
Four hours later, squatting on the grimy kitchen floor with bare feet, the man finished, with great relish, one of the best meals of his entire life. Delectable, he thought, absolutely delectable. He licked his fingers clean and belched contentedly.
“Dammit!” He cursed, remembering with annoyance that he’d foolishly left the door open. “We don’t want any old tat to come in and rob us, do we?” Clambering to his feet he padded down the dark, narrow hallway and stepped onto the porch. About to close the door, he suddenly spied the humungous case of cookies, standing alone on the bumpy ground.
“Ah,” he said to the night, “I think I have room for a spot of pudding.”