The Door Into Nowhere

An old man is trapped in a basement room that leads to another dimension—put there by his ex-wife, who’s a witch. Why is he there? Can Tom rescue him? Tom and Rachel search for the answers that will take them behind the door into nowhere. 

The Door Into Nowhere, Part One

 Morris Rosen’s house had a wide grassy lawn with a big tree, a narrow veranda, and a thick front door. I pressed the doorbell, waited 30 seconds, rang again, then used the key my client had sent me. 

            “Hello? Mr. Rosen?” I pushed my head in. “I’m Tom Jurgen. Your son sent me?”

            No response. Adam Rosen hadn’t heard from his father in six days. He was in Toronto, recovering from COVID-19, so he’d called me to go to Morris Rosen’s house in Arlington Heights to make sure his father was okay. I’d suggested just having the local police do a wellness check, but that seemed to make him nervous. Was the senior Rosen wasn’t making meth in his basement? I hoped not.

            “Mr. Rosen?” I closed the door. The front hall was empty. So was the living room, the dining room, and the pantry. Likewise the three bedrooms upstairs.

            That left the basement.

The basement door was next to the kitchen. I turned the knob, flipped a light switch, and headed down. 

            A stocked bar with high stools ran along one wall, with a big TV mounted opposite it. Chairs and a sofa sat in between. One door led to a laundry room—the dryer door was open, with boxers and socks lying inside. 

            Facing the bottom of the staircase was another door. I pulled it open.

            I expected a closet with paints and tools, maybe a fuse box. Instead I was looking—outside. A sidewalk with grass on either side, and tall trees jutting upward into a cloudy gray sky. 

            I stepped back, disoriented. The trees reached way higher than the roof of the house I was in. The sidewalk curled to the left and disappeared behind a cluster of leafy green bushes. 

It wasn’t like someone had just built an indoor underground park. I could see a cloudy sky above the branches. It was more like a peek into another dimension.

            Then I saw the old man.

            He was sitting on a wooden bench, in a checked jacket and a red cap. 

            I pulled out my phone. Adam Rosen had sent me photos of his father Morris. I peered at them.

            The man on the bench was Morris Rosen.

            “Hello?” I waved a hand. “Mr. Rosen? Hello!”

            He didn’t seem to hear. No sign of recognition or response. As I watched he lifted a hand to scratch his cheek. So he was awake. Alive. 

            I called again. Then, cautiously, I stepped forward.

            A rush of wind blew at me, pushing like a wave. I staggered back as a black cloud suddenly enveloped my body like a swirling smoke bomb. I waved my hands, coughing, as my face and neck were assaulted by small pricking stabs, like hornets stinging at my skin. 

            I lurched backward, gasping, and the black cloud was gone. I stood still for a moment as the pounding in my chest settled down, and stared at the doorway. 

            The old man just sat there, as if he hadn’t seen anything. Couldn’t see anything.

I called one more time. Not too loud—I didn’t want to draw another attack, whatever that cloud was. Then I took a few pictures on my phone and headed quickly back upstairs to call my client.

            “I was, uh, afraid of something like this,” Adam Rosen told me when I called him from my car. I restrained myself from yelling Then why the hell didn’t you warn me?

He coughed. “Maybe you should, uh, head back to your office. I can explain. It’s going to sound—strange.”

            Strange is my business, apparently. I started the car. “Talk to you soon.” 

 

I used to be a reporter, until my editor fired me for insisting on reporting the strange things I saw—monsters, ghosts, vampires. Now I’m a private detective, and between cheating spouses and employment background checks, I still keep running into ghouls and other things that go bump in the night.

            It’s a living.

            Back at my apartment I made fresh coffee while Rachel set up a video call. Rachel’s my girlfriend. She has short red hair and hazelnut eyes, and aside from technology issues she helps me with my more supernatural cases, which comes in handy because she’s a little psychic. She’s also hot. Not that I’m biased or anything.

            I showed her the picture of Morris Rosen while we were waiting for Adam. She wrinkled her nose. “You know I can’t pick up anything from pictures.”

            “I thought you might admire the composition.”        

            She punched my arm. Then Adam came onscreen. In his 30s, he had short blond hair and a thin beard. “Hi. Thanks. Uh, I guess I should explain.”          

            I introduced Rachel. He checked her out, then cleared his throat. “My mom and dad got divorced when I was a kid. I didn’t see too much of her, and dad didn’t talk about her. He got remarried, but Sheila died about 10 years ago. Anyway, uh . . .” Long pause. “Mom—Annabelle—showed up at the house one day when I was staying with dad. This was about six months ago? She came to the front door. I almost didn’t recognize her. Anyway, they started arguing right away. Eventually she left.”

            He paused for breath and a swig of water. “She didn’t even talk to me then. Sometimes she called the house and left messages for dad. If she got me she’d just hang up. Anyway, I, uh, deleted the messages when I got them. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that?” He sighed. 

            “I had to come up here for work.” Adam was an IT consultant. “Then I got COVID. I’m stuck here for another week. I was talking to Dad every other day, but then he stopped calling me or answering. So I looked for someone to check on him, and I called you because, uh, you seem to have experience in . . .” He hesitated. “The thing is, my mother is, uh, a witch.”

            I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. I nodded. “That explains—some of this. Maybe.”

            “Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “I said Dad didn’t talk about her, and I hardly ever saw her, but she left some stuff. Books and things, in the basement. I found them when I was 11. They were in the wall. Some of them were in Latin or some other language, but a few were in English. I never did anything with them—” He stopped. “Well, okay, I tried a few things. Most of them didn’t work, but I, uh, okay—I started a fire in the basement one time. I got it out, and I don’t know if my dad ever figured out what happened. But the books and stuff were gone later. I don’t know what he did with them.”

            I sipped coffee. “So you think your mother is responsible for trapping your father in the basement?”

            He nodded. “Maybe she wants money? I don’t know. I tried to call her after you went there, but she doesn’t answer. I guess we’ve got to find her.”

            “Any idea where she is?”

            Adam shook his head. “Like I said—I mean, I’ve got her number, but I haven’t seen her in years.”

            “She must be close by.” I glanced at Rachel.

            She sighed. “I can ask around.” Aside from being psychic, Rachel has lots of friends in Chicago’s supernatural community. “What’s her name? Annabelle? Does she use Rosen?”

            “No, it’s, uh, Silvestri. Annabelle Silvestri.”

            “Any other information?” I asked.

            “I can, uh, send you some stuff. Her number, her emails if she still uses either of them. The last address I have for her.”

            “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” We ended the call.

            “Now what?” Rachel looked at me.

            “Usual missing persons stuff. I ought to go back out to the house to check phone messages and do another search, now that I know what I’m looking for.” It would have been useful to know all this for the first visit, but then Adam didn’t know his father was stuck in another dimension. Or whatever it was. “Call Carrie and her friends and see if anyone has heard of her.” 

            “Okay.” Rachel stood up. “Be careful. And don’t forget it’s your turn to cook dinner.”

            “I’ve got a plan.” I had no plan. I hoped something would occur to me on the drive home. If I didn’t get eaten in Rosen’s basement.

 

Back at the house, I went downstairs again. I could see Rosen on his bench, as if he hadn’t moved in hours.

            I wondered how long he could last. How many days had he been in there? Maybe he was suspended, or maybe time worked differently beyond the doorway.

            I stood ten feet back and hurled a pen at the doorway. It hung in the air, quivering like an arrow in a target, and then the black cloud erupted again. I jumped, but it only billowed out two inches or so, and in a few seconds it was gone.

            The pen dropped to the floor. I left it there.

            Upstairs I listened to the messages on Rosen’s answering machine. They went backward: One two days ago from his dentist confirming an appointment, one from someone asking why he hadn’t shown up for his shift at the local animal shelter, a message from his cleaning service, four or five in between from his son, jumping between worried and irritated, and then—

            “Morris?” A female voice, seven days ago. “I’ll be over tomorrow for the thing. Have it ready for me.” Click.

            Tomorrow. That would have been last Thursday. Adam hadn’t heard from his father since then.

            I did a thorough search. Kitchen cabinets, bedroom drawers, bathroom cabinet, toilet tank—the works. I was looking mostly for the books Adam mentioned, and any other mystical objects from Annabelle that Morris might have hidden away. I found nothing like that, just the usual clothes, books, videos, and personal papers.

            A computer sat in one second-floor bedroom. I sat down and turned it on, expecting to hit a demand for a password, but the screen opened right up. The desktop image showed the Grand Canyon. A few folders held shopping lists, contact information, miscellaneous articles about COVID, politics, and medicine, and of course porn. I don’t judge.

            I couldn’t get into his email, so I checked his internet browsing history. He wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. His bookmarks were mostly about medicine or history. He’d searched recently for “submarines,” “diabetes,” “Social Security office near me,” “animal shelters near me,” some porn again, nothing kinky,“bank deposit boxes,” “Clint Eastwood movies,” and more. 

            The computer wasn’t a laptop, so I couldn’t take it home with me to work on there—or let Rachel play with. She’s good with computers. After half an hour I stood and stretched. Time to go home. 

            I went down into the basement for one more look. Maybe something would occur to me.

            In the basement Rosen was now standing in the doorway, one fist in midair, as if trying to hammer his way free. I walked toward him. “Mr. Rosen? Morris?”

            He blinked in my direction, but his eyes didn’t quite focus on me. He waved a hand and moved his mouth. I couldn’t hear him, so I waved my arms. 

            Rosen stepped back, breathing hard. He lifted both hands and gestured something, then stopped and shook his head, annoyed. 

            With one finger, he tried spelling in the air. I stared, concentrating. The first letter looked like an “A.” The second was maybe an “N.” He did it again—did he mean to repeat it? Then another “A.”

            Annabelle? “Annabelle!” I shouted.

            He kept spelling, but his hands started to shake. He stomped a foot on the ground, then doubled over, gasping, his face red. 

            I hesitated. I knew what would happen, but I couldn’t just leave him there if he was having a heart attack. I stepped forward, my hands up. One careful step—

            The smoke burst out and swallowed me again, burning my eyes and my throat. I forced myself forward, waving my arms as the spectral hornets jabbed at my face and neck. One step, two—my hand stopped against something cold. I pushed. I didn’t want to try punching it and get my hand stuck like Rosen. I pushed hard, and my fingers poked into a chilly, slushy barrier. I coughed, trying to ignore the stinging on my skin, and jammed two fingers as deep as I could. 

            The smoke roared around me. I couldn’t breathe. I slid my fingers out and stumbled back, falling flat on my ass on the concrete floor. When I blinked, the smoke was gone.

            Morris Rosen was sitting again on his bench, staring into nowhere.

            I waved and shouted, but he didn’t see or hear me. 

            I rubbed my face and neck, catching my breath. Whatever was stinging me inside the cloud didn’t leave any marks. After a moment I bent down to pick up my pen. Then, with one last look at Rosen, I went back upstairs.

            In the kitchen I drank a glass of water to calm my nerves. Then I called Rachel. “It’s definitely the ex-wife. You got anything on her?”

            “It’s been, what? Two hours?” She snorted. “I emailed Carrie, and Mandy Sikorsky, and Alan, and a few others. Nothing yet. You all right? Your voice sounds funny.”

            “I’m fine.” More water. “I’ll be home in a while.”

            “Don’t forget dinner!” She laughed and hung up.

            

I spent another half hour searching Rosen’s computer and office some more. The bookmarks didn’t get me anywhere; the files on his computer were boring (except for the porn, which I didn’t look at). The office had cardboard boxes and file cabinets filled with years of paid bills, financial reports, old tax returns, warranties for appliances, and the like.

            Back home I used my own computer to search for Annabelle Silvestri. The basic information Adam gave me checked out—address, email, phone number. She didn’t answer her phone when I called. I sent an email. Her address was in Elmhurst, a western suburb. I could go check it out tomorrow.

            I also found her under the name Anna Silver. A website had a picture matching the ones Adam had sent me. She offered psychic readings, spiritual consultations, “soul cleansing,” and scented candles. Testimonials from clients were enthusiastic, especially for the candles.

            Anna Silver showed up on other websites, mostly related to psychic services. She had Facebook and Instagram pages for her business. “Hey, Rachel, looks like you’re missing a deal.” I sent her some links. “You, too, could be an online psychic.”      

            “I actually did that in college.” She finished her coffee. “I was still figuring stuff out. And I didn’t know how to hide bad news. Girls didn’t like it for some reason when I knew they were cheating on their boyfriends. So what’s for dinner?”

            “Coming up.” I sent a quick email to Adam, then headed to the kitchen.

            Rachel’s a vegetarian, so I made rice and chickpeas with curry, along with roasted asparagus and a salad. She found it edible. She cleaned up as I finished some end-of-the-day emails, and after dinner we watched some Netflix until it got boring. Then we started kissing and turned the TV off.

 

The Door Into Nowhere, Part Two

 The next morning I drove out to Elmhurst. Annabelle’s address was a small bungalow on a treelined street. The grass in the small yard hadn’t been cut in a week or so. Spiderwebs shrouded the front window. I checked the mailbox next to the front door. Empty.

            I pressed the doorbell three times, 30 seconds apart. No answer. 

            If I were a real P.I.—by which I mean, a fictional P.I. on TV or in books—I would have picked the lock and sneaked inside for a search. Since I didn’t want to only see Rachel on visiting days in prison, I settled for peering through the front window into the living room. 

            Magazines on a coffee table, a sofa and a chair, a TV in the corner. A bookcase with candles and plants stood against one wall. A painting hung on another. 

            I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching me. Then I leaned forward and shaded my eyes for a better view. A stack of unopened mail sat on the coffee table next to the TV remote. A dog toy lay on the carpet. A clock on the wall over the bookcase was five minutes fast. And—

            Wait. A dog toy?

            I reached over to press the doorbell again. Standing in front of the window I caught sudden, frantic movement, a shadow rushing around a corner, jumping toward the door. A small dog, a pug, its mouth yapping, tail quivering. It ran to the window, saw me, and pawed the glass with its front legs. 

            I stepped back, checked around me again, then headed back to my car. Time for a stakeout.

 

Rachel called two hours later. “Any activity?”

            I figured that eventually someone would have to walk the dog. So far nobody had, and I was going to need a bathroom myself sooner or later. At least I was able to do some work with my laptop. No one appeared to notice me. It was a quiet street.

            “I’ll give it another hour or two,” I told her. “No one’s mowed the grass in a while, but someone’s picking up her mail. I’m hoping a neighbor or someone—wait.”

            A young Black woman in her 20s leading two dogs on their leashes walked up the sidewalk to Annabelle’s porch. “Gotta go. I’ll call you.”

            I got out of my car as she unlocked the front door. By the time she came out with the pug on a third leash, I was at the bottom step of the porch. “Hi.” I waved what I was hoped a nonthreatening hand. “Tom Jurgen. Could I talk to you a minute?”

            “Uhh . . .” She wore jeans and a University of Chicago sweatshirt, a canvas nag slung over one shoulder, her hair pulled back under a yellow scarf. “What’s it about?” The three dogs scurried around her feet while she reached for a back pocket to Mace me if I was a stalker or an overly enthusiastic Jehovah’s Witness.

            I held out my card. “Annabelle Silvestri’s son has been trying to get in touch with her. Do you happen to know where she is?”

            She blinked at the card without taking it, her hand still in her pocket. “Uh, she didn’t say. She called me a few days ago to come walk Pearl twice a day. I’ve walked him before.” As if confirming this, the pug nuzzled her ankle.

            “Did she say where she was going? Or how long she’d be gone?”

            She shook her head. “I, uh, I have to get going. Come on, boys!”

            I didn’t blame her. My questions were pretty suspicious. But at least I’d established that Annabelle wasn’t home, and hadn’t been for several days. It was something. Not much, but—

            Then the dog walker turned. “Hey? I, uh, don’t think it matters too much if I say this, but she said if I had to get in touch with her, talk to Haley.” She pointed to the next house. “Haley Brooker. Next door? I guess it’s okay to tell you that.”

            I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll leave my card in the door here. If you want to call me.”

            She gave me a “whatever” shrug and pulled Pearl and the other dogs for their walkies. 

            So I went next door. Haley Brooker was in her 40s and frazzled. I could hear dogs and kids behind her in the doorway. I explained quickly who I was and told her that Annabelle’s son was trying to find her.

            She sighed and took my card. “I suppose I can call her. I don’t know where she is.” Like the dog walker, she was clearly skeptical of a strange man asking questions with only a flimsy excuse.

            I nodded. “Thanks.” And then, because I had to try: “Do you have any idea where she’s gone?”

            “I didn’t know she was going anywhere. It must have been a last-minute thing.” A child shouted “Mom!” behind her. “Look, I have to go.” She closed the door before I could say thanks again.

            I went back to the car, called Rachel, and headed for home.

 

“Carrie’s friend Nikolai knows Anna Silver,” Rachel told me after I’d used the bathroom and fixed myself a sandwich. “Here’s his number.” She sent it to me on her phone. “How’d the stakeout go?”

            “Like usual. Maybe someone will call me.” Finding a missing person isn’t so much a matter of finding them as asking a lot of people where they are—and maybe one is willing to tell you. I sipped my coffee and called Nikolai.

            “Hey man.” Nikolai had a faint Jamaican accent and a friendly voice. “Yeah, I helped Annabelle set up her website. She’s pretty cool. We, uh, had a little thing for a while.” He laughed. “Haven’t seen her lately, though.”

            “So you don’t know where she is right now? Can you contact her?”

            “I got her on my phone, yeah. What’s it all about?”

            I told him that Adam was trying to find her, and that his father was missing, and that she’d been trying to get something from him. I didn’t mention the door into nowhere. “Do you have any idea where she might go? Who she’d talk to?”

            “Let me see . . .” I heard music near him. “Maybe Lincoln. He’s a wiz. I mean, he’s an accountant, but he does stuff with his mind. Moves things, you know? Psycho, uh psychokinesis. Makes some money doing—stuff. And Jaye, she did readings with Annabelle sometimes. Personal readings, for rich people. That kind of stuff.”

            “What’s she like? Annabelle, I mean.”

            Nikolai laughed again. “She can be wild. I mean, we dated for a while, right? And she’s older than me, but she’s not—well anyway.” He cleared his throat. “She’s pretty intense. Like, when I was working on her website, she wanted everything yesterday. She wasn’t mean or anything like that, just—anxious. Same way in, uh, other stuff, you know? She was always learning new things, right?”

            “Like what?”

            “New tricks. Magic, you know. Carrie said you know about that stuff?”

            More than I’d like, sometimes. “What kind of magic?” The word made Rachel’s jerk up.

            “How to get inside people’s heads. That’s what her readings are all about, the other person’s mind. So she can tell them what they want to hear. Not like she was lying,” he said quickly. “So she’d know what they really wanted. So she was looking for anything that could let her get inside. And then stuff like opening doors. Portals.”

            “You mean, other dimensions?”

            “Yeah. But that always sounded too far out there, you know? I never saw her do anything like that. That worked, I mean. She was always trying.”

            Maybe she’d figured it out. 

            He gave me contact information for Lincoln and Jaye, and I thanked him and hung up. “You know this guy?” I asked Rachel.

            She shook her head. “I think I’ve met him once or twice. At parties. What kind of magic were you talking about?”

            “She was interested in portals. Very interested.”

            “Huh.” We’d actually gone through some portals to other realities a few times. Sometimes my job is weird. “That must be what happened to Adam’s father. What’s she looking for, though?”

            “Good question.” 

            I called the other two. Lincoln didn’t have much to add. He’d never dated Annabelle, but he knew about her passion for knowledge about portals and other types of magic. 

            “Yeah, we worked together sometimes,” Jaye told me when she called me back. “Usually some older guy who wanted a private reading in his house. They’d want sex too.” 

            I raised an eyebrow that she couldn’t see. Jaye went on: “But Silver likes money. She’s always buying stuff. Not jewelry and regular stuff, but books and charms so she could figure out more magic.”

            “What kind of magic?”

            “Mind reading. Other realms.”

            Did that mean—“What kind of other realms? Other dimensions?”
            Jaye giggled. “I could show you. Tonight? My place?”

            I glanced at Rachel. “Sure. Can I bring an associate?”

            “More the merrier.” She gave me her address. “I’ll have to charge you. $200? For supplies and stuff.”

            “I’ll need a receipt.”

            “What’s that?” Rachel shot me a glare from her desk across the office.

            “We’re going exploring in other realms tonight. You in?”

            She rolled her eyes. “Better than sitting in a car on a stakeout, I suppose.”

 

Jaye’s apartment was the top floor in the Ukrainian Village neighborhood. We walked up the outside stairs and knocked on the door. Jaye opened it with a smile. “Hi! Come on in!”

            She was short, with black hair in a ponytail and amber eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She wore a turquoise necklace and a black T-shirt for a punk rock band I’d never heard of. She looked to be in her 20s.

            I introduced Rachel. They shook hands, and then Jaye walked us into a small living room. It held the usual TV, sofa, and chairs, some magazine on a coffee table, and candles. A mirror hung on a wall between two bookcases, facing the sofa where Rachel and I sat. I handed her a check, she gave me a handwritten receipt, and then she poured some red wine.

            “Okay.” Jaye rubbed some jasmine-scented oil over her hands. “This is going to be fun. I don’t know as much about this as Silver does, but I learned a little. I mean, I can do séances and a little mindreading, but this is really weird.” She took a sip of wine and opened a thick, leatherbound book. “You ready?”

            I can’t read minds, but I can read Rachel pretty well. She was restraining her urge to snort in derision. I nodded. “Let’s go.”

            Jaye knelt in front of the table and lit a candle. Then she placed her hands on either side of the book. A feather sat on one side of the book, a black crystal on the other. 

            Leaning down, Jaye began to recite from the book—a chant in a language I didn’t recognize. Her breath pushed the feather a few inches. The candle flame flickered with every other word.

            The crystal stayed still. But after a moment it started to glow, as if a white light underneath was streaming up through it. Jaye kept chanting, closing her eyes and repeating the same spell over and over.

            I glanced over at Rachel. Her eyes were narrow, and she gave me a quick nod. “I feel it,” she whispered.

            I did too—a breeze through the room. Cold air, not a storm, just gentle murmurs across my face and shoulders. 

            Jaye smiled. “Look up.” 

            Where? Then I saw it—in the mirror on the far side of the room. Rachel and me, and the back of Jaye’s head, were gone. For a moment the mirror was solid black—and then it flared with light. I blinked, and when my eyes focused again I saw a tall mountain, covered with snow, a castle perched on the top. Flying dinosaurs circled its towers.

            Again I looked at Rachel. “You see this?”

            “Yeah.” She licked her lips. “A castle on a mountain. Flying lizards. You too?”

            “Right.” I stood up. “Can I—?"

            “If you touch it, it goes away.”

            I had to try. I stepped cautiously around the table and across the room. When I reached the mirror, I leaned forward.

            The pterodactyls or whatever they were looked like circled in the sky like flying drones. On the mountain I could see small figures climbing upward. One lost his balance and fell, disappearing beneath the snow. The rest kept climbing.

            I stretched my hands out—tensing for the black cloud that had burst from the doorway in the Rosen basement. 

            A shock of cold met my fingertips, but nothing more. Then, like Jaye had predicted, the mountain and the castle vanished. First the surface was black, and then it was a mirror again, and I was staring at my own puzzled face.

            “Where was that?” Rachel picked up her wine.

            “It was—let me see—” Jaye turned a page in the book. “Bettina Roishe. I can’t read the language that describes it, just the name, and the spell. Pretty cool, huh?”

            “Definitely.” I sat down next to Rachel again. “Did Silver teach you to do that?”

            “We learned it together. She’s a lot more involved in it. I can’t actually bring up a door—” She pointed to the mirror. “But that’s what she’s working on.”

            “Where’d you get the book?” I sipped some wine to calm my nerves.

            She smiled. “His name’s Marlowe.”

The Door Into Nowhere, Part Three

 Back home Rachel called Carrie while I started looking online for Marlowe. 

            Jaye told us that Annabelle had met Marlowe at a party. Apparently these people threw lots of parties. Anyway, Jaye insisted on tagging along to tutoring sessions when Annabelle told her what she was learning. “She was kind of pissed at me,” Jaye laughed. “But I really wanted to learn about mind reading, like Silver. The portal stuff was just extra cool.”

            They’d met at Annabelle’s house, so Jaye had no idea where Marlowe lived. Or his first, last, or real name. 

            “What did you pick up?” I asked Rachel in the car.

            “From Jaye? She’s got some mojo. Also she really doesn’t like Annabelle too much.” She chuckled. “But the world in the mirror? It was . . . they were fighting a war. The castle was like the Death Star. I wonder what happened.”

            “Maybe we can schedule a viewing.” I turned left. “Let’s check Marlowe out when we get back.”

            Carrie knew Marlowe, slightly. No idea where he lived, but she’d ask around. I didn’t have enough information to do an internet search. So we quit for the night and argued over what to watch on TV until Rachel won and we settled in for some Real Housewives. 

            The next morning I drank coffee while looking again. Jaye had told us that the party she met Marlowe at was at an apartment where a woman named Taylor lived. “Taylor Foote. In Bucktown.” She didn’t know her number, but I found her on the internet and sent her an email. Nikolai said he’d met him once, not at a party but once at her house when he came over to set up a new computer. “He was just in the kitchen, drinking coffee with his laptop. I heard noises from the computer, but Anna told me to ignore it. He didn’t talk to me.”

            I’d sent Adam an email last night, but he’d never heard of Marlowe. Not surprising, but it never hurts to ask. When Rachel came in to start her job at nine o’clock—she does web design, among other things—she had a message from Carrie, who said she’d heard of Marlowe but also didn’t know where to find him. 

            I had other cases to work on, including a cheating spouse case that I was pretty sure I could wrap up without having to actually tail the guy to a motel. Credit card records can be as damning as photos, if you know what to look for. So I worked on that for an hour or so, and then my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s Megan Barnes. The dog walker? At Annabelle Silvestri’s house yesterday? I’m calling you because—well, there’s something weird happening in the house. I talked to Haley, next door? And she said I should call you.”

            “What’s going on?”

            “Well . . . maybe you should come out and see it?”

            I looked at the time. “I can be there in about an hour. Does that work?”

            “I’ve got a few more dogs to walk. But I’ll be there.”

             I hung up and turned to Rachel. “Want to go out to Elmhurst to look at Annabelle’s house? The dog walker says something weird’s going on there.”

            Rachel sighed. “The thrill never ends with you, does it?” She shoved her chair back. 

            “Someday I’ll take you to Disneyworld.”

            “Promises, promises.” 

 

Megan Barnes was sitting outside on the porch, looking at her phone. I introduced Rachel, and she unlocked the front door. 

            “Usually Pearl comes running, but today I had to go in and look for her.” She led us through the living room, which smelled like wine and incense, through a kitchen and to a hallway door. 

            Pearl the pug sat on the carpet, whining.

            The door was open. Annabelle Silvestri sat inside. In a forest.

            Thicker than the one I’d seen Morris Rosen in. Dark trees surrounded her as she sat in a wrought-iron chair, fingers folded in her lap, staring outward. Twenty yards away, half-facing the doorway. 

            Pearl barked. She didn’t hear her. The dog nuzzled Megan’s jeans, as if imploring her to get Annabelle free.

            “W-what is that?” Megan looked at me. Then at Rachel. Then back at me.

            “We don’t know yet.” I took a step forward. But Rachel grabbed at me and shook her head.

            I wasn’t eager to encounter the same fog that had attacked me in Rosen’s basement, so I stayed back. “I told you that her son was trying to contact her. It’s because his father is trapped the same way.”

            Megan’s eyes got wide. “Oh-kay. You guys are, what? Ghostbusters?”

            “Not exactly.” For one thing, we’re definitely afraid of ghosts. “Is this the first day Pearl didn’t meet you at the door?”

            “Well, no. But usually I call her and she comes. I never had to look for her.”

            Rachel knelt. She can’t actually talk to animals, but she can pick up feelings from them. Just like with people. She patted Pearl’s head, and Pearl responded by butting her—his?—head against Rachel’s knee.

            Rachel stood. “She’s scared. She likes you, Megan, but she misses the lady. That’s what she calls Annabelle. Sort of.”

            “So you’re a real dog whisperer?” Megan folded her arms. “What’s going on?”

            “We thought Annabella was behind trapping her ex-husband in a similar spot.” I looked through the doorway at Annabelle. “Looks like something else.”

            “Is it safe for me to come back here?”

            Rachel glanced up and down the hall, then nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think the place is hexed. Just stay away from this door.”

            “Right.” She took one last look. “Okay, see you later, Pearl.”

            We left.

            In the car I called Adam. “Wow.” His voice was still hoarse. “I didn’t—who—what does it mean?”

            “I don’t know.” I was tired of saying that. “Can you think of anyone with a grudge against your parents? Both of them?”

            “I can’t—I don’t think so.” He coughed. “I’ll think about it.”

            “Okay. We’ll call you back when we learn something.” Which might be a long time at this rate. At least Annabelle seemed safe—for the moment.

            I looked at Rachel. “What do you think?”

            “You’re the detective. I’m just the hot assistant with psychic powers. And great legs.” She yawned. “Let’s get coffee.”

            

Back in the office I worked on the cheating spouse case for a while and then went on to background checks for a different client, still thinking about Rosen. And Annabelle. Both trapped in another universe. By who? Why?

            Annabelle had called Morris asking for something. “I’ll be over tomorrow for the thing.” What thing? Did she ever show up? We’d been assuming that she put Morris in the other realm. Was it someone else?

            Questions and more questions. The only way to get answers was to talk to people. So I started calling and emailing everybody again.

            Malcolm had never heard of Marlowe, and didn’t know anything about other realms, aside from visiting them after doing some mushrooms. Nikolai was annoyed that I was bothering him again, and hadn’t thought of anything more about Marlowe. His friend Lincoln had never heard of Marlowe. I sent another email to Taylor Foote—and she called about five minutes later, while I was researching Bettina Roishe, the world Rachel and I had looked at in the mirror last night with Jaye.

            “Hi! Sorry I didn’t call you back yet.” She sounded out of breath. “I was out of town. My mom’s kind of psycho. Anyway, Marlowe? That’s what you wanted to know about?”

            “That’s right.” I explained again who I was, leaving out all the details about why I was interested in him. Thought I figured she’d probably understand. “Do you know how to get hold of him?”

            “Yeah, I, uh . . .” She hesitated. “Would it be okay if I told him you wanted to talk to him? 

             “Sure.” People are cautious these days. “Just tell him it’s about, uh, Annabelle Silvestri. He should know her.”

            “Annabelle . . . got it.” She hung up.

            I waited, trying not to drum my fingers on my desk—that makes Rachel crazy. I went back to looking for Bettina Roishe. Maybe I could find out how the war ended.

            My phone buzzed 20 minutes later. “Jurgen? This is Marlowe. Marlowe Addison. You’re looking for me?”

            “Thanks for calling me.” I waved Rachel over and put him on speaker. “I’ve got my associate here with me. It’s about Annabelle Silvestri—”

            “Silver. Yes.”

            “And her ex-husband, Morris Rosen. Their son was concerned about not being in contact with him, and it looks like—” I hesitated, but Marlowe should know all about this right? “That they’re both, uh, imprisoned in another universe. Inside their house. You know something about other realms. Jaye told us you gave her a book—”

            “Yeah, that was mine. I lent it to her.” He paused. “Her son?”

            “He’s in Toronto. He had COVID, and he can’t travel home yet.”

            “Oh, I see.” Another pause. “Could I see her?”

            I glanced at Rachel. She shook her head. Don’t trust him, she mouthed.

            I nodded. “I don’t have access to her house. I do have a key to Morris’.”

            “All right. Let’s meet there. I’ll see what I can do.”

            I gave him the address.

            Rachel punched me as soon as I hung up. “I told you not to trust him!”

            “Ow.” I rubbed my arm. “I don’t. You’ll wait close by. You can come in with your pepper spray and taser if anything goes wrong.”       

            She grimaced. “I’ll use it on you.”

 

The Door Into Nowhere, Part Four

 We met at the Rosen house 90 minutes later. It was around 1 p.m.

            Rachel was in her own car down the block, with a second key. I called her before leaving my Honda and kept the phone on in my windbreaker so she could listen in.

            Marlowe was waiting on the front porch. Tall and thin, in his 40s, he had a gaunt face and a thick black hair beard. “Jurgen?”

            We shook hands. Then I took out my key.

            We went downstairs. In the basement, I showed him the open door. The portal. Rosen sat inside, several yards away, seemingly oblivious to us.

            I waved an arm. No response. Then I turned to Marlowe. “What do you think?”

            He looked me over. “What do you know about alternate realities?”

            No point in pretending. “I’ve been to some. One was called Forsythia. Another one had lots of demons, but they weren’t all killers. I was in Hell once, or something just like it. Jaye showed us Bettina Roishe last night. What do you know about them?”

            Marlow laughed. “I’ve visited too. Some are peaceful, some violent. Some are bigger than our universe, and some are smaller than a closet.” He looked through the doorway at Morris. “Ask him for the ring.”

            “Huh? He can’t hear me. I’ve tried—”

Then he shoved me

            Marlowe was stronger than he looked. Also I was off guard and off balance. Mostly that. I stumbled forward. “What the—”

            And then the black mist swirled around me. My throat tightened up as I fought to breathe, and I flapped my arms as the ghost wasps or whatever they were jabbed at my neck and scalp again. 

            When I hit the ground I felt as if I’d fallen from a second-story window. I lay there gasping, blinking my eyes, until I focused on a foot. A shoe. I looked up.

            Morris Rosen frowned down at me. “Who the hell are you?”

            I struggled to my feet. “Tom Jurgen.” I almost reached for a card, but decided that could wait. “Your son hired me to find you. He hasn’t heard from you in a week.”

            “A week? It’s only been—” He leaned forward to examine my face. “Wait. I saw you just a few minutes ago. I was trying to tell you—”

            “Annabelle, right? Your ex-wife. Adam’s mother.”

            He nodded. “Yeah. She was just here.”

            Just here? Wait a minute—“How long have you been here?”

            He turned and looked down the path. It seemed to go on forever, or at least the length of a football field. “I’m not sure. The sun doesn’t go down. I was a little hungry, but that passed. There’s little spring behind one of the trees. I had to pee a couple of times, and I just . . .” He looked away from me, embarrassed.

            Time moved differently here. That was typical, based on my visits to other alternate universes before. Rachel might have pepper sprayed Marlowe by now. Speaking of—I pulled my phone from my pocket. “Rachel? You there?”

            Nothing. Maybe there’s a pricey upgrade for cell service between dimensions. I’d have to check that out.

            I put my phone away and looked toward the doorway. It was blank, a shadowy gray rectangle at the end of the path. I thought I saw movement inside it or beyond it, flickers of light like a swarm of fireflies. 

            I didn’t want to risk the black mist again. I’d have to, if I was here long enough, but for now I had questions.  “Do you know a man named Marlowe?”

            He looked back at me, thinking. “I don’t—I think Annabelle mentioned him. Right before she put me in here.”   

            “He said to ask you for the ring.”

            His shoulders sagged. “That’s what Annabelle wanted.”

            “What is it? Where is it?”

            Morris sighed. “It’s my mother’s engagement ring. I gave it to Annabelle when we got married. I—I took it back when we got divorced.”

            An engagement ring? “Is it magic? Is it worth a lot of money?”

            “It’s worth a lot to me!” His face flushed, embarrassed. “I mean—it’s my grandmother’s. And her grandmother’s before her. It’s been in my family forever! And no, it’s not the one ring of power or anything like that! It’s just a ring!”

            Okay. So why did Anabelle and Marlowe want it so bad? What if—

            Suddenly the shadowy doorway shimmered. The fireflies flew around in riotous circles, then abruptly burst into flame before vanishing.

            Rachel stood there. She’d never looked more beautiful.

            Jaye stood next to her, the big book cradled in her arm and a small burning candle at her feet, next to the glowing crystal from last night. “Come on!” Jaye shouted. “I don’t know how long I can keep this thing open!”

            Morris was already on the run. He beat me to the opening—not bad for an old guy—but I was right behind him. 

            No mist, no stinging hornets. Just Rachel. She punched my arm. “What the hell, Tom?”

            I looked back. The doorway showed the long path and an empty bench. I sighed with relief. “Thanks. Uh—what time is it?”

            “It’s 4:30. Your phone went dead, and then Marlow came out of the house.” She pointed to the doorway. “I came in and saw you there, talking to, uh—”

            “Morris Rosen, this is my girlfr—my associate, Rachel. And Jaye. Hi, Jaye.”

            “Hi.” She set the book down. “I wasn’t sure that would work.”

            “Jaye’s the only one I could think of. So I went to her place and, uh . . .” She glanced at Jaye. “She agreed to come and help.”

            Jaye rolled her eyes. “Good thing I wasn’t at work.”

            “Anyway, she tried a few things under my gentle persuasion—”

            Jaye snorted. “Your girlfriend can be pretty intense, you know?”

            “And eventually something worked. Good job!” Rachel patted Jaye’s shoulder. Then she glared at me. “So what happened? What’s going on?”

            “It’s something about an engagement ring.” I looked at Morris. “Are you okay, sir?”

            He caught his breath. “I’m hungry.”

            “Where’s the ring now?”

            “In my safety deposit box. At the bank. I put it there the first time Annabelle asked for it. I was—nervous.” He looked at Jaye. “My ex-wife can get pretty intense, too.”

            “Okay.” I looked at my phone. We’d been in the other realm for hours, even though it felt like only a few minutes. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

 

Morris insisted on having a sandwich and using the bathroom, and then calling his son. All that took a while. I called Megan, and then we drove down to Elmhurst—Morris in my car, and Jaye with Rachel. Megan was waiting for us on the porch.

            Jaye lugged the book with her, not happy. “I’m supposed to go on a date. It’s on Zoom, but still.”

            Morris looked nervous as Megan unlocked the door. “I don’t really want to see her again. I didn’t even know where she lived.”

            “She’s stuck in the same place we were. After we get her out—” Then what? I didn’t know. I’m a P.I., not a marriage counselor. “Let’s just sort this business about the ring out.”

            Pearl met us just inside, jumping over Megan happily. “Not now, Pearl.” Megan scratched her neck. Pearl followed at her heels as we headed down the hall.

            Annabelle sat in the forest, head down as if she was dozing. Morris took a deep, audible breath as he saw her. “What’s—that’s what I looked like? From the other side?”

            “Pretty much.” I turned. “Jaye? Can you help us out here?”

            She groaned and opened the book. “Someone light the candle. And help me hold this. It’s heavy.”

            Rachel lit the candle on the floor and placed the crystal beside it, and I stood next to Jaye as she flipped the pages. “Okay, here goes.” 

            She started chanting. Morris leaned against the hallway wall. Megan stared at us as if we were all crazy, but Rachel and I are used to that. Pearl plopped herself in front of the door, waiting patiently.

            The crystal glowed. Jaye paused for a gulp of water from a bottle in her jacket, then went on. The doorway shimmered. Once, twice—

            Then Annabelle was standing in a walk-in closet, surrounded by shelves of sheets and towels. 

            “Annabelle!” Morris shouted. “Get out of there!”

            She blinked. “Morris?”

            “Come here!” He waved his arm.

            Annabelle came out, and Morris slammed the closet shut. Pearl started jumping for joy, and she leaned down to pet him. “Pearl, calm down, good girl, good girl. Morris?” She stood up. “What are you—who are you?” She looked at the rest of us. “Oh, hi, Megan.”

            “Hi, Annabelle.” She looked nervous. “I hope it’s all right I let them in. You were, uh, kind of trapped.”

            She nodded. “He let me make a phone call about Pearl before—before—”

            “What’s going on?” She looked again at Morris. “The ring?”

            “You can’t have it!” He stomped a foot. “It’s been in my family for generations!”

            “It was stolen.” The voice came from the head of the hall.

            I turned. All of us turned. I saw Rachel reached into her jacket for her pepper spray.

            It was Marlowe.

 

“Who’s that?” Morris asked.

            Annabelle jabbed a finger in Marlowe’s direction. “I’m mad at you!”

            “How did you know we were here?” I asked, moving next to Rachel for protection. Hers or mine, it didn’t matter.

            “I called him.” Jaye knelt and blew out her candle. She put the crystal in her pocket. “I mean, I don’t know you people, okay? 

            “I showed up at Rosen’s house just as you were leaving.” Marlowe looked at Morris. “I followed you, until I was pretty sure you were coming here.”

            Rachel elbowed me. “Didn’t you lock the door?”

            “I have a key.” Marlowe held up a keychain.

            It was starting to come clearer now. “Wait a minute.” I turned to Annabelle. “Are you two . . . engaged?”

            Morris looked from her to Marlowe, then back at Annabelle. “Who is he?”

            “I thought we were.” She glared at Marlowe. “I thought—this is just about the ring, isn’t it? That’s what you wanted? That’s why you made me ask Morris for it, and why you told me to put him in the basement, and then you—” She pointed at the closet door. “You did it to me. You asshole.”

            Marlowe nodded. “I’m sorry. When I saw pictures of the ring, the ones you showed me–I recognized it. It’s very distinctive. Here—” 

            He reached into his back pocket. Rachel tensed, but he only pulled out his phone. “Here.” He held it out. “Is that your ring?”

            Morris leaned forward. So did I. Rachel too, and then we were all crowding around the phone until Morris said, “Hang on a minute!” He peered at the image—a diamond cut like a five-pointed star on a thick gold band. “That’s my ring. I mean, it looks like it—”

            “Does it have an inscription? In Russian?”

            “Yeah.” That came from Annabelle. “It says, ‘Heart of my heart.’ That’s you told me.” She looked at Morris.

            Marlowe slid the phone back in his pocket. “My great-grandfather made it for the woman he wanted to marry. He was a jeweler. She took it, and the next day she left the city with some sailor. He spent years looking for her. And his son, and the rest of us. We were brought up on the story.”

            He sighed. “I didn’t really think about it that much until I was here one night—” He nodded to Annabelle—“And I saw a picture. I knew it right away.”

            “You bastard.” Annabelle looked ready to spit at him. “And I thought—” She shook her head. “I thought it was weird. But you said . . .” She shook her head. “Get out of my house.”                                                                                             

            “But Anna—” Marlowe reached out a hand.

            “All of you! Get out!” She snapped her fingers, and a small flame rose from her palm. “Now!”

            I’d almost forgotten she was a witch. I looked at Morris. “Let’s go?”

            He nodded. “Yeah.”

            Out on the porch Marlowe confronted Morris with a pointed finger. “This isn’t over. The ring belongs to my family.”

            Morris sighed, tired. “Give it a rest, man. It was 100 years ago.” 

            “It’s a family matter.” Marlowe scowled.

            “Hey, why did you let Annabelle call the dog walker—Megan?” I asked. “Before you stuck her in there?”

            “Am I a monster?” He shook his head. “I’ll be in touch.” He stalked off the porch into the night. 

            Megan sighed. “I’m going home.” She looked inside the front window. Pearl was sleeping on the carpet, Annabelle on the couch. “I wonder if she’ll need me tomorrow? I’ll call.”

            Jaye crossed her arms. “Is someone going to take me home? I’ve got a date later.”

            “I will.” Rachel gestured toward her car. “Hey, can you tell me how the Bettina Roishe thing comes out?”

            “Yeah, I watched it after you left . . .”

            They walked down the front walk.

            Morris turned for a look through the window. Annabelle was sitting in the living room, holding a bottle of whiskey and an ice filled glass. Pearl ran to jump on her lap. She smiled, gulped some whiskey and started petting her.

            Morris sighed. “I don’t know. It was good for a while. And then it . . . wasn’t.”

            I’m a P.I., so I’ve heard all the stories. And I got divorced too, long before meeting Rachel. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

            His phone buzzed. “All right. Let’s—Adam? Yes, I’m fine. Your mother’s okay too. Yeah, I’ll tell you everything . . .” He kept talking as we walked to my car.  

 

# # #