Days continued to blend together in a haze of uncertainty and anxiety, but the haunting pull of the cottage and its mysterious copper door grew stronger with each passing hour. Finally, late one night, sleepless and desperate, I made a decision—staying in this suffocating apartment was no longer an option. My father’s cottage, despite its grim appearance and unsettling secrets, offered at least the promise of escape from this endless cycle of fear and stagnation.

  Determined, though my anxiety still simmered beneath the surface, I resolved to confront my landlord first thing in the morning. Sleep that night was fragmented at best, punctuated by restless dreams of the decaying cottage and the copper door, always just beyond my reach.

  The morning arrived gray and dreary as usual, mirroring my own apprehensive mood. With my heart pounding in anxious anticipation, I dressed quickly in the most presentable clothes I could manage—slightly less wrinkled slacks and a clean, though faded, button-down shirt. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I walked down the narrow hallway to my landlord’s door.

  Mr. Hastings, my landlord, answered after several knocks, his weary face creased with irritation. He was an older man, perpetually dressed in worn cardigans and threadbare slippers, his thinning hair combed haphazardly across his scalp. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at my unexpected visit.

  “Joshua,” he grunted. “What do you want? Rent’s not due yet.”

  I shifted uncomfortably, throat dry, anxiety bubbling painfully in my chest. “Actually, Mr. Hastings, I—I need to move out. Immediately.”

  His expression hardened immediately, suspicion deepening into irritation. “The lease clearly states you need to give at least a month’s notice,” he snapped. “I don’t appreciate being blindsided.”

  “I know, sir,” I replied hurriedly, desperation coloring my voice. “But things have changed drastically. I lost my job recently, and I—I don’t have enough to cover rent for much longer. I’ve inherited a small property from my father—my last relative—and it’s my only option now.”

  Hastings’s expression softened slightly at the mention of my father’s passing, though suspicion lingered in his eyes. “Inherited property? Didn’t know you had property around here.”

  “Neither did I, not until recently,” I admitted quietly, eyes cast downward. “But it’s the only choice I have left. Please, Mr. Hastings, I don’t mean to cause trouble, but I’m desperate.”

  He sighed heavily, shoulders sagging with reluctant sympathy. “Fine, Joshua. Given your circumstances, I’ll make an exception. But you need to be out by the end of the week, understand?”

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully, relief washing through me, tempered by the lingering fear of what awaited me at the cottage. “I truly appreciate your understanding.”

  He merely grunted again, retreating into his apartment and shutting the door firmly behind him. Alone in the hallway once more, relief mingled uncomfortably with the anxiety of my uncertain future.

  Returning to my apartment, I began the slow task of packing my meager belongings. Each item I gathered reminded me of how little my life had amounted to—worn clothing, battered furniture, remnants of a life spent merely surviving rather than truly living.

  As I packed, thoughts returned relentlessly to the cottage—the imposing copper door etched vividly in my mind, its intricate carvings of a ruined city haunting every quiet moment. Despite the anxiety, despite the overwhelming sense of loss and instability in my life, an undeniable sense of purpose stirred within me, driving me forward toward whatever awaited me there.

  By evening, the apartment was largely packed, boxes stacked haphazardly against peeling walls, the emptiness echoing the emptiness within me. Tomorrow would mark a fresh beginning, though whether it would bring redemption or ruin remained to be seen.

  For better or worse, my future now lay irrevocably tied to the delapitated cottage and the secrets it held behind the burnished copper door. The morning arrived abruptly, yanking me out of restless sleep filled with vague unease and half-remembered nightmares. Pale sunlight filtered weakly through dusty windows, casting lifeless shadows on my sparse belongings. The reality of the day ahead pressed heavily upon me: I needed to move into the cottage, a task complicated significantly by having to rely entirely on public transportation.

  My possessions, limited as they were, felt cumbersome with the way that I had packed them hastily into battered cardboard boxes. Clothing, worn kitchen utensils, books I barely remembered owning—they all went into the boxes without care. Anxiety twisted within me, magnifying each minor inconvenience, each delay, and every impatient sigh from fellow passengers.

  The first journey was exhausting. The crowded city bus jolted forward, nearly causing me to drop my precarious load. Fellow passengers cast irritated glances my way as I squeezed awkwardly through narrow aisles, boxes jutting into knees and shoulders. The bus ride stretched on endlessly, each stop adding more weary faces, each bump in the road amplifying my discomfort.

  On my second trip back into the city to retrieve more belongings, I encountered an unsettling distraction. As I waited at a congested bus stop, a disheveled man with wild eyes and unkempt hair began shouting incoherently. His frantic movements and shrill voice drew nervous attention from pedestrians hurrying past.

  “The veil!” he yelled hoarsely, eyes darting erratically through the crowd. “The veil between worlds—it weakens! They will break through soon, and you won’t be ready! None of us are ready!”

  He turned suddenly toward me, his eyes wide and feverish. “You hear me, don’t you? You know it’s true! The veil can’t hold!”

  Uneasy, I quickly looked away, pretending not to hear his ramblings, desperately wishing for the bus to arrive faster. His words, however, lingered disturbingly in my thoughts, their urgency refusing to fade even as I climbed aboard the bus moments later.

  When I finally reached the cottage with my final load, exhaustion settled deep into my bones. Each step across the crumbling porch was cautious, fearful that the rotten wood might collapse beneath me. Entering the cottage, the heavy scent of earth and decay wrapped around me, mingling with the anxiety already clutching tightly at my chest.

  The imposing copper door immediately commanded my attention. Its intricate carvings of a devastated city gleamed faintly, somehow sinister even in daylight. My pulse quickened, anxiety tightening further in my chest, driven by both the homeless man’s frantic warnings and the unsettling mystery that surrounded the door.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  I forced my gaze away, determinedly focusing instead on the practicalities of arranging my modest possessions. I unpacked slowly, each object offering little comfort in the unfamiliar space. The cottage felt alien, uncomfortable—far from welcoming.

  As evening approached and shadows stretched across the walls, my unease grew stronger. Despite my best efforts, the presence of the copper door hovered constantly at the edge of my thoughts, casting a dark shadow over my new beginning. Exhausted, I settled onto a makeshift bed, feeling acutely vulnerable within these unfamiliar walls.

  Sleep was elusive, punctuated by restless awakenings and an overwhelming sense of dread. The cottage, with all its decay and the silent menace of the copper door, felt like anything but home. Days passed slowly, each marked by relentless anxiety and monotonous routine in the isolated cottage. My bank account dwindled dangerously, amplifying the sense of urgency I felt about finding employment. Just as despair was about to consume me entirely, my phone buzzed unexpectedly, startling me from my anxious thoughts.

  “Hello?” I answered cautiously, voice rough from days of silence.

  “Joshua? This is Rebecca Collins from Allied Financial Solutions,” a crisp voice responded briskly. “We reviewed your application and would like you to come in for an interview tomorrow morning at nine. Are you available?”

  Relief surged through me so intensely it left me momentarily breathless. “Yes! Absolutely,” I responded quickly, my voice edged with desperation.

  “Excellent. Please be on time,” she said curtly before ending the call.

  Excitement mingled with anxiety as I hung up, immediately pacing the cottage’s dusty floors. Sleep was restless, fraught with anticipation, every passing minute stretching endlessly toward morning.

  I awoke early, dressing carefully in my cleanest clothes—still worn but neat, meticulously ironed in a futile attempt to hide their frayed edges. As I boarded the bus into the city, anxiety twisted in my stomach, each mile intensifying my worry. Arriving early, I paced nervously outside the sleek office building, rehearsing practiced answers repeatedly in my mind.

  Inside, the corporate office was modern, bright, and intimidating. Glass walls and sharp angles emphasized the stark contrast between this world and my disheveled existence. The receptionist eyed me skeptically as she directed me to a sleek waiting area filled with professionally dressed candidates whose confidence further eroded my already fragile composure.

  Finally, my name was called, and I was ushered into an interview room. Two impeccably dressed executives sat across a polished glass table, their expressions unreadable, professional, and distant.

  The interview started smoothly, my rehearsed answers delivered clearly despite the anxiety gripping my chest. But soon, the questions grew sharper, more probing, each response scrutinized critically. Panic crept into my voice, causing words to stumble awkwardly.

  “Your previous employer mentioned some concerns about attention to detail,” one interviewer noted pointedly, referring to Brenda’s undoubtedly scathing reference.

  “It was... a challenging environment,” I stammered, heart racing, sweat forming on my forehead.

  They exchanged brief, dismissive glances. My panic deepened, words tumbling from my mouth without control, explanations growing increasingly incoherent. The executives’ disinterest became palpable, their polite smiles hardening into expressions of annoyance.

  Finally, the interview was abruptly terminated. “Thank you, Joshua,” one executive said coldly, standing and signaling the end of our meeting. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Humiliated and defeated, I rose shakily. As I moved toward the exit, two security personnel approached discreetly, their presence clearly meant to ensure my swift departure. Their unsmiling faces offered no comfort, deepening my humiliation.

  Outside, the city’s noise seemed deafening, oppressive, matching the chaos within my mind. Without direction, consumed by despair, I stumbled blindly toward a nearby bar, seeking escape in its shadowed anonymity.

  The dimly lit bar was nearly empty, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke. I sank onto a worn stool, ordering whiskey with trembling hands, desperate for relief from the crushing weight of rejection and failure. One drink became two, then three, as the numbness slowly took hold, easing the painful tightness in my chest.

  Hours passed unnoticed, blurred by alcohol and grief. Soon, darkness enveloped the city fully, mirroring the void expanding within me. Eventually, consumed entirely by despair and intoxication, I barely noticed when a beautiful woman approached, sliding gracefully onto the stool beside me.

  She smiled warmly, eyes bright even in the bar’s dim lighting. “Rough day?” she asked softly, her voice smooth and comforting.

  I managed a weak smile in response, attempting to focus through the alcohol-induced haze. “You have no idea.”

  She leaned in closer, her perfume sweet and inviting. “Maybe I can help make it better,” she suggested playfully, eyes twinkling.

  But before I could respond, a wave of nausea surged violently upward, overwhelming me instantly. Without warning, I turned and vomited suddenly, splattering her pristine dress with alcohol and humiliation. Her horrified scream filled the bar, drawing startled glances from nearby patrons.

  “Oh my god!” she shrieked, recoiling sharply.

  Mortified beyond words, I stumbled from the bar immediately, head spinning violently as shame flooded me. Without looking back, I fled toward the nearest bus stop, barely coherent enough to navigate public transportation back to the cottage.

  The journey was agonizingly long, punctuated by dizzying nausea and profound embarrassment. Eventually, safely within the cottage’s gloomy solitude, I collapsed onto the floor, I woke with a jolt, pain sharp and sudden in my thigh. Confused, I fumbled around, fingers brushing against cold metal. It was the brass skeleton key, the one that had tormented my thoughts relentlessly. Its sharp edge had jabbed deeply into my flesh, as if reprimanding me for my hesitation, chastising me for trying to conform to society’s unrelenting, impossible standards.

  A fiery surge of anger erupted within me, fueled by years of frustration, disappointment, and silent compliance. Society’s rules had brought me nothing but pain, humiliation, and failure. The key suddenly felt heavy with meaning, solidifying my resolve. Anger burned fiercely, righteous indignation igniting a courage I’d never before possessed.

  “Fuck this shit,” I growled defiantly, my voice raw with emotion. “I won’t be told what to do anymore.”

  Fueled by adrenaline and fury, I dragged myself from the cold floor, my movements awkward and painful but driven by determination. The copper door stood imposing and silent, waiting patiently as it had since my arrival. Its intricately carved cityscape, so hauntingly beautiful yet terrifying, glinted faintly in the dim moonlight filtering through the dirty windows.

  I thrust the key into the ornate lock with trembling hands, heart pounding violently against my ribcage. The mechanism clicked heavily, resonating deep within the structure, echoing my own resolve. Gripping the cold metal handle, I twisted forcefully, the door groaning in protest, resisting initially, then yielding slowly, grinding open with an ominous, methodical motion.

  Behind it, darkness yawned open like a living entity, revealing only stairs descending steeply into a thick, oppressive gloom. Dust danced silently in the air beneath a single, wavering beam of moonlight, illuminating a single step downward. The atmosphere was thick with dread, ancient and foreboding.

  My anger propelled me forward, overwhelming fear and hesitation. “I won’t be told what to do,” I repeated defiantly under my breath, bracing myself against the encroaching darkness. As I stepped forward, the door behind me creaked slowly closed, grinding shut with finality, leaving no option but forward.

  Suddenly, an overpowering wave of musty, stale air surged up from below, hitting me with brutal force. The scent of rot, decay, and something indefinably ancient filled my nostrils, choking me instantly. My stomach heaved violently, vision blurring as nausea overtook me.

  Unable to hold myself upright, I fell forward, collapsing onto the rough stairs. Consciousness faded rapidly, my body tumbling slowly downward into the unknown darkness, each impact resonating like a grim echo of my final defiance.

  As blackness enveloped me completely, my last conscious thought lingered stubbornly, fueled by rebellion:

  As the darkness enveloped me completely, an unsettling uncertainty filled my thoughts, mingling uneasily with my lingering anger and defiance. The choice was mine, undeniably, but what awaited below was unknown—perhaps dangerous, perhaps liberating. Regardless, there was no turning back now; I had stepped irreversibly beyond society’s rules, or atleast my overbearing Fathers, driven by the desperation and pain of a life that had offered only disappointment.