Free Collected Stories by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

sound, like a lame old man who is trying to overcome his handicap; drawing nearer, and the room was becoming colder. William shivered, then overcome by an unreasoning fear darted towards the door. He opened it, went out, closed it carefully behind him, then went over and sat down behind his desk.
    He opened his eyes.
    Five minutes passed. William got up, moved very slowly towards the door, turned the brass knob, then pulled. A cupboard, eighteen inches deep, filled with shelves on which nestled stacks of typing paper, carbons, ribbons, the familiar materials of his trade. He shut the door, then opened it again, finally closed it with a bang before returning to his desk.
    He sat there for some time, then suddenly was seized by a fit of shivering that made his body shake like a dead leaf beaten by the wind. Gradually the spasm passed, leaving him weak, drenched with perspiration, but strangely at peace, like a man who has recently recovered from a brief, but serious illness. A dream, an illusion, or perhaps a rebellion on the part of an overworked imagination. What did it matter? It had been an experience, an exercise of the mind, and no writer worthy of his ink should be afraid of a journey into the unknown.
    He watched the door for the rest of the night, and the door stared right back at him. Once he thought the handle began to turn, and he waited with breathless expectancy, but it must have been an illusion caused by his overstrained eyes, for the door remained closed.
    The door became an obsession. His work was neglected, a bewildered agent telephoned at regular intervals, muttering dark threats about deadlines, broken contracts, and William tried to flog his brain back to its former production line, but to no avail. The door was always there, and with it the memory of a room; a study in blue, an anteroom to another age. “Next time,” he told himself, “I will go out through the great window, and walk across the garden and rediscover yesterday.”
    He sat by the hour with closed eyes trying to re-create the dream, willing himself back into that armchair, gazing up at the portrait over the mantelpiece, but the 20th century remained obstinately present, and several times he fell asleep. Rosemary was becoming worried.
    “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
    “No,” he barked the denial, his irritation growing each time the gentle inquiry was made. “Leave me alone. How am I to work?”
    “But you’re not working,” she persisted, “neither are you eating. William, this must stop.”
    “What?”
    “You and that damned door.” She glared at the door. “I do not pretend to understand, but ever since that lump of old wood came into this house, you haven’t been the same man. It scares me. William, have it taken out, let’s burn it in the boiler.”
    He laughed harshly and experienced a pang of fear at her suggestion, and saw the startled expression on Rosemary’s face.
    “Don’t worry so much. The truth is I’ve run dry, writers do occasionally. It’s happened before and the old brain has always started ticking over once it was good and ready. But it makes me a bit irritable.”
    “That’s all right,” she brightened up at once, “I don’t mind you being a bit testy, but you’re getting so thin. Are you sure that nothing else is bothering you?”
    For a mad moment he toyed with the idea of telling her about the room, the dream, then instantly discarded it. She would not understand or believe, so he kissed her gently and said, “Absolutely nothing.”
    “Then pack it in for a bit,” she pleaded, “and let me cook you a decent meal. One you will eat.”
    It was suddenly very important she be pacified, her mind be put at rest.
    “All right. I’ll give you a hand.”
    He helped her in the kitchen, was surprised to hear himself making small talk, while all the time his mind, his very soul hungered for the blue room and the fear that lurked in the garden. For that was the truth, and the realization