The Cellar Door

You must be asking yourself a question; what is a healthy looking young stallion doing in a padded cell in Manehattan’s most infamous insane asylum? One who looks, and acts and talks as sanely as the next pony you would meet on the street.

I do not believe myself to be mad, but I know I must be here, for my safety and that of everypony else. I know I must be sane, for I saw these things with my own eyes and I cannot disprove them despite how horrible they seem.

Allow me to tell you my story, so you may know why I don’t belong here, yet why I must stay here in my padded prison of safety, and why I must forever stay wrapped in a coat.

I lived alone on the east side of Manehattan. I inherited my home from my father, who died three summers ago. He was a hard stallion, who would discipline me at the slightest provocation. He was tough on me, but fair I think. My mother died when I was too young to remember, so it was only me and my father in that old empty house.

There were many rules growing up, and some I kept to even after he passed. I kept the floors cleaned, the windows washed, but of all the rules, there was one I never dared challenge.

Do not open the Cellar Door.

A silly thing, one might think. Tis but a door, like any other, and should harsh weather hit, we would need to take shelter. But the rule remained the same; do not open the Cellar Door.

Even now, I remember my father’s tone of voice and serious look on his face as he told me each day before he left me alone. “Do not open the Cellar Door.”

And I never had. My curiosity kept me awake at times, and other times I found myself just staring at the plain wooden door at the back of our house with a rusted deadbolt keeping it fastened shut.

I once asked my father, my mind racing with possibilities, “What is behind the Cellar Door?”

And he never gave me an answer. He’d look at it for a moment, and then back at me, and said, “Never you mind.”

Those were his last words too, on his deathbed, sick for six nights, coughing up blood even, his final words to me before passing from this world and into the Golden Pastures. “Do not open the Cellar Door.”

Over three summers ago he died, and for nearly three summers, I kept to that final request.

But the chores could only keep my attention for so long, and the city ponies never interested me much.

I found myself staring at the plain wooden door at the back of my house once again. The deadbolt just as rusted as in my youth. I could have just pulled it back and peered down into the cellar at any time.

But I didn’t, for two and nearly a third summer, I did not open the Cellar Door.

The first summer it barely entered my mind. I had a house to tend to, one that was all mine. It needed to remain presentable, not that any extended family or friends came to visit often, and when they did they never commented on the tidiness.

The second summer was decidedly more tempting. I would stare at it for what must have been hours on end, longing to know what was behind it. It consumed my thoughts, but I remained strong against whatever it was that tempted me so.

Early into what would have been the third summer, however, that’s when I was becoming weak.

It had been weeks since I had slept in my bed. I had begun sleeping in front of the Cellar Door, sleeping for only minutes at a time, eating only every couple of days. I was running out of food too, and I’m sure I didn’t smell very pleasant either.

I spent my time staring at this plain wooden door with the rusted deadbolt. It seemed to mock me as I sat there. I rarely slept, but it would haunt me in my dreams as well, staying as closed as ever, deadbolt locking it tight.

Perhaps those weren’t dreams though, but only me sleeping with my eyes open.

The last dream I had though, I can tell you in vivid detail, because that was the first time I saw it.

The Cellar Door was open.

I do not know who or what had opened it. In my dream it seemed like it had been open forever. And behind it was darkness, and nothingness. I stared into the nothing for what seemed an eternity. I cannot say what I saw, not because I can’t remember, but because I cannot put such a thing to words.

I had awoken with a start to see the plain wooden door still closed, the deadbolt still rusted shut.

You may be thinking to yourself now, that surely I am indeed a mad pony, staring at a Cellar Door for days and dreaming of it too.

I say now, that I know that I am sane and of sound mind, for nothing of that detail could possibly come to a mad mind.

Back to where I was, I had just awoken from my dream, to see the door closed. I shook my head and muttered something to myself. I believe I had said “enough of this” or something like it.

I had decided then to open this accursed plain wooden door. After all, it was my house now, and I may do as I wish. Tis but a simple door like any other, leading to a cellar, just like any other.

I had gathered up an old oil lantern and lit it. I set it on the floor before I reached up to the rusted deadbolt and with a deal of effort; I slid it to the side, and picked the lantern up in my jaws before opening the Cellar Door.

The first thing I saw was nothing. I say nothing because it was such a resounding nothing that I have to describe it as such. There was no scent of stale air, or mold. No lights from any surfaces down below, just darkness and a set of old wooden stairs leading down deeper into the dark nothing.

Putting the Cellar Door behind me, I took my first steps down into the cellar; the light of the lantern doing what it could to fight back the dark but it had little success.

I slowly stepped down the stairs, careful about putting my full weight on any of them at any given time. They seemed like they could give at any second, and each one creaked with protest as I put a hoof down on them.

After what could have been a dozen stairs, my hoof sounded against hard concrete and I had reached the bottom of the cellar.

I peered about, narrowing my eyes to try and pierce the impervious darkness.

That’s when I… I hesitate to say I ‘saw’ it. I’m not sure what it was. Like I said, I can’t describe such a thing. But I do know it was there, and I knew then that I shouldn’t have opened the Cellar Door.

I must have screamed, and I’m sure I had, for the next sound I had heard was the lantern shattering on the floor of the cellar, followed by the noisy protests of the stairs as I ran up them as fast as my hooves could carry me.

I closed the plain wooden door behind me, and I reached up, and slid the deadbolt back where it belonged, and pressed myself against the door, breathing hard, and eyes wide with fear at what I had seen.

And then I heard it. The stairs creaking slowly and lowly.

Where my hoof steps were joined with protesting cries, the noiseless approach of it sounded of cheering, which got louder as it drew closer.

I was frozen to where I was, even as the creaking stairs stopped, and I knew it was right behind the Cellar Door.

It called to me, though not with words, calling to me to move the rusted deadbolt once more and throw open the plain wooden door.

My hoof felt as if it wanted to move of its own accord, and do just that.

I ran from that spot as fast as I could, and out of the old house of my Father. I’ve been told I was screaming the entire way here.

I told the staff nothing, only that I must be here. Forever if need be.

And really and truly, I must be here forever, for if I lay eyes on that plain wooden door with the rusted deadbolt again, I would open it, and it would be free.

But you can go there if you wish to see. If you want proof.

You can go to the house of my Father and of mine.

See the pillow and blanket where I camped in front of it, pondering it.

See the plain wooden door with the rusted deadbolt.

But remember the greatest rule of our house, the one which must never be broken by owner or guest.

Do not open the Cellar Door.

Author's Note

This was my attempt at something akin to Lovecraft.