<babarganesh>great, family left on vacation a week before i did and apparently took the storage room key with them, so i have no luggage
<selflathing>why is the storage room locked in the first place?do you live in a victorian mansion? is there a box in there, with a doll inside that contains the spirit of unspeakable horrors?
DO NOT GO IN THE STORAGE ROOM
<babarganesh>nah, just a five unit condonobody is going to steal anything from it really, and the lock is crap anyway
<selflathing>you could have just let me have thisfuck it, i’m doing it anyway
You live in an enormous Victorian mansion. Despite being adults, you and your sister wear black and white school uniforms. Your mother is tall, thin, and aloof; your father, the opposite. Your sister is generally placid but prone to sudden outbursts.
You have fond relationships with the castle help, a ruffling hair type scenario because you are 11 years old. (This is a flashback now.)
One day, toward the end of the corridor, past your parents’ bedroom, you find a door. You try; it’s locked. You think little of it.
Later that evening, Father takes you aside. He is gentle, but there’s an intensity to him that’s unusual.
“Son, I love you so much. I so rarely ask you for things; I want you to have a life that’s free and open.”
You nod. you’ve always felt this, never questioned it.
“Today I ask something very important of you. It pains me to say this, but I need you to trust me on this, and obey without asking questions. It is this: never go in the storage room. do you understand?”
You nod again.
“Thank you, son. I love you. Run along now.”
Your father’s uncharacteristic change in tone unnerves you a little, but the request is simple, and you care much more about catching bugs than exploring the house.
The episode is slowly forgotten.
Years later now: things have changed, things are the same. The old wood burning stove has been replaced with induction, but the third stair still creaks.
The tradition of the family vacation continues. Father has finally gotten his wish – Paris, the City of Dreams!
Everyone else has flown out early, but you had work to finish the semester.
“Ah! There’s a spare suitcase in the back of our closet!”, your father offers on a video call. Excellent.
You start packing the afternoon before. There is no suitcase in the closet, but you find a door. Maybe it’s in here? But it’s locked.
“FUCK! fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” You smile at the thought of Hattie, your long-departed governess, were she to hear your language.
“Sorry Hattie”, you mutter to yourself as you shoulder barge the door open.
It is very dusty in here.
You step in. Drapes languidly parted, dust in the sunbeam. This room clearly hasn’t changed since…
You look around, trying to date it. The only place you’ve seen this wallpaper is the inside of your parents’ closet, untouched in their bedroom remodel (“Who cares?”, said your mother).
But they’ve been in that bedroom forever. You’ve never known them not there, so… before you were born?
The room is sparsely furnished: a wardrobe in the corner, a wrought iron bed, and -
your attention is momentarily drawn away, to your phone ringing from the other room, and then back to -
a chest at the foot of the bed.
You walk over slowly and squat to look at it.
There’s a padlock on the chest, but it’s unlocked. You gently unthread it from the clasp, maintaining the stillness of the room, and set it down quietly.
The wooden chest is empty save for a dirty rag doll.
It looks at you placidly as you reach in to pick it up -
[EXTREMELY JARRING SMASH CUT TO MANSION EXTERIOR]
The lights of the parked police cars are still turned on, though the only sound of sirens is the occasional dispatch from across the city.
The firetrucks have done what little they can. The fire chief enters frame.
“Detective, you’ll want to see this.” He hands over a phone.
“Was this from inside the house?”
“Yes. Check the voicemail.”
“You have… one… saved message. First message:”
“Babar. Babar! Babar, no, I’m begging you, please don’t-“
[CUT TO BLACK]