Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

window looked out into a familiar kitchen. The faint sounds of Christmas
music filtered in through the window pane, and a woman pulled homemade
candy canes from the oven.
He continued on.
He didn’t know how long it took to reach the top of the stairs. It felt like
hours, though he suspected it was only a minute or two. He wondered if it
was like this for everyone who’d come before him, and he almost wished
Hugo were there, leading him by the hand. Such a funny little thought, he
mused to himself. How it pleased him, the idea of holding Hugo’s hand. He
hadn’t lied when he’d told Hugo he’d wished he’d known him before. He
thought things could have been different, somehow.
He reached the fourth floor.
He was surrounded by windows, though the curtains had been drawn. A
little chair sat next to a little table. On top of the table was a tea set: a pot
and two cups. A vase had been placed next to the cups, filled with red
flowers.
But no door.
He looked around. “I don’t … Where is it?”
Nelson lifted one finger, pointing up. Wallace lifted his head. And there,
above them, was a door in the ceiling.
It wasn’t as he’d expected. In his fear, he’d built it up in his mind, a great
metal thing with a heavy, foreboding lock. It’d be black and ominous, and
he’d never work up the courage to walk through it.
It wasn’t like that.
It was just a door. In the ceiling, yes, but it was still just a door. It was
wooden, the frame around it painted white. The doorknob was a clear crystal
with a green center in the shape of a tea leaf. The whispers that had followed
him up the stairs were gone. The insistent tugging on the hook in his chest had
subsided. A hush had fallen in the house around them as if it held its very
breath.
He said, “It’s not much, is it?”
“No,” Nelson said. “It doesn’t look like it, but appearances are
deceiving.”
“Why is it in the ceiling? That’s a weird place for it. Has it always been
there?” The house itself was strange, so he wouldn’t be surprised if it’d been