Pilgrimage by Carl Purcell Page B

other side looked much the same, save for the black mark and the lack of any handle. Roland gave it a push from both sides and the door stood straight, unbudging. He knocked on the front. The sobbing stopped. Sweet, merciful silence filled the air. Roland started backing away, ready to forget he'd ever seen the door. Then the crying started again.
    Roland stared at the door. He shifted back and forth on his feet, uncomfortable standing in any position. The ring in his pocket – no, his whole body – felt unbearably hot. His throat ached. He swallowed and ran his tongue over his dry lips. Magic. This all had to be magic. A magic door making magic sounds, standing out in the middle of a magic nowhere.
    But it was his door. Why would a sorcerer create his door? How did they know it was his door?
    Mind reading. A mind-reading sorcerer playing a sick joke. Roland made plans to find the bastard and play a sick joke of his own. The I-broke-your-nose-arse-hole kind of joke. Fucking hilarious.
    Until then, he could leave the door alone. He didn't need to open the door. He didn't need to back then, and he didn't need to now. Not that anything was on the other side of the door. There couldn't be. He'd walked all around it. The door went nowhere. Right?
    Right?
    Roland stared at the stainless steel door handle. The door didn't have a lock; at least assuming it was his door, it didn't have a lock. Of course it was his door. It's not like somebody else's dreams or somebody else's memories were coming to life in front of him.
    No fighting it. Roland reached down and gripped the handle. He had to know. He had to see her. It had been so long, and after what he'd done. This was the only way he could see her. Roland pushed the door open. Beyond the door, inside his bedroom, he saw the blanket-covered, human-shaped mound on the bed. The sobbing hit him like a kick in the gut.
    “Violet?” Roland said.
    *****
    Griffith looked over his shoulder.
    “Maybe you're right. Maybe we should have thought — Roland?” He spun around. No Roland. “Roland!” He called. No answer. Unusual. It wasn't like Roland to wander off – that's the sort of thing he'd do, not Roland. “Roland!” Griffith called again. He closed his eyes and listened for an answer. The forest replied with dead silence. A chill rushed through Griffith's body. He'd seen enough horror movies in his time to know that too quiet out in the bush is bad. This was an unnatural silence. Griffith opened his eyes and stepped forward.
    He landed face first on a pile of bodies. Griffith screamed. He struggled through the pit of corpses towards the edge but every movement sunk him further down. Rotting arms and maggot ridden-faces piled over him.
    “No, no, no!” Griffith called and groped for a handhold. An ancient, dead foot snapped off in his grasp. He sank further into the pit. He felt something wrap around his ankle. He kicked at it with his other foot and dragged himself away with his arms. The bodies were suffocating. The light disappeared as he fell – or was dragged – deeper into the mass grave.
    Then something brushed against his hand. He couldn't see any more, could only feel his one hand above the bodies. Griffith pushed himself up on somebody's head and grabbed at whatever he felt. His fist closed around a clump of hair, no, it was grass or maybe leaves; whatever it was didn't matter. He'd grabbed solid earth. Griffith shut his eyes tight and pulled himself up. With his other limbs he swam towards the surface. He pretended the bodies weren't there. It wasn't a grave he'd fallen into. It wasn't a pit of corpses. It was just, well, it could be anything else. Anything was better. It was a pile of narcoleptic puppies that he couldn't wake up. It was a swimming pool full of jelly. It was absolutely anything that wasn't rotting corpses.
    Griffith's other hand broke the surface and he grabbed the edge of the pit. With two hands secure, he hoisted himself straight up, knocking