“Ready?”

“I think so.”

“It’s not really a question that you can respond to unsurely.  Either you are, or you aren’t?”

“Ready.”

“Go ahead then.  Let us in.”

Tristan stood in front of the door, arm stretched forward, with the key in his hand.  Some wildly debilitating magic froze him in this spot.  He breathed evenly, trying to force his frame forward with his mind, but his muscles didn’t obey.

“Oh stop dawdling.  Here, I’ll do it.”

She slid gracefully into the gap between his frame and the door.  Her body pressed against his, he felt the firmness of her breasts, and her steady heartbeat beneath, as she squeezed into the narrow space.  While she positioned her body so that he could feel her warmth, she slid her right arm around his back in a reassuring half embrace.  Her left took hold of his right hand, and slid towards the door, taking hold of the key when her fingers touched metal.  She leaned up and kissed him gently on the neck, then pressed her buttocks against the door, and her shoulders into his chest, and playfully shoved him away.

The first room in the blood-red, brick building, with the bone-white window frames, and slate-grey panes, was bare.  With nothing laid upon it, they could see every inch of the well-worn, wooden floor that led their eyes towards the back of the room, and the fireplace.

Not far to the left of the fireplace was a slightly open door. Tristan knew, it led to the kitchen.  He closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply through his nose.  The delectable waftings of hundreds of meals came to him.  He picked up roasting meats, spicy, exotic clove, and sugary, pumpkin-tinted sweet potatoes.  He smelled rich, grainy oats, plums, and dark cherry.  His nose gathered licorice tinged anise, mint, and chocolate.  He picked up the heavy, yeasty, grainy, notes of fresh-baked bread.  He smelled the frying of eggs, and the roasty, dark, invigorating notes of coffee grounds steeping in boiling water.  Then, he drew in the tantalizing melange of flaky pastry, peaches, and postcoital perfume, a half smirk upon his lips as he envisioned the impassioned failure to use proper dishware.

In the empty room, translucent augmentations formed one by one, then faded.  The couch in front of him materialized first.  The form felt familiar, and comforting, and the worn state of the upholstery gave warmth to the otherwise vacant room.  Next, a small, simple, white table, with chipping paint along the top and legs, formed against the wall near the kitchen door,  followed by two similarly paint-worn chairs, that materialized at the thinner sides of the meal platform. The vase was slow to arrive, its slender blue crystalline form alighting on the table as if delivered by a spectral waiter.  It was half filled with water, whose source was likely the not-far-off-kitchen, and from the vase, sprouted triplet green stalks that gave way, beyond the neck of the azure glass, to bee-yellow daisies.

A short distance from the yellow triumvirate, the pair engaged themselves in the act of breakfast.  The plates on the chipped white table, completing the isosceles arrangement perfectly, bore fresh-baked rye bread, delicately ridged with crispy black wooden char, courtesy of an over long stay upon the stinging surface of the pan, and glistening with an over zealous application of corn colored butter.  The pieces of bread were accompanied by thin slices of pink meats, ringed by dark brown, fatty skins.  A small mound of darkened starch filled in another position of each plate.  The remainder of the plate, found itself filled by berries, curiously peach in color, and coated with a nectar-like sugary liquid.   The act of consumption played secondary to the engagement between the pair.  Forks automatically found sustenance amid the exemplary culinary display, while above and across the meal, the intent focus upon each other, despite the overwatch of the delicate daisies, remained unbroken.

An appropriately named love seat nested in the left corner behind the small, frail, ivory, meal spot.  Its angle allowed its one end to touch the front wall, near the white framed, granite-paned window, while its other kissed the west wall, near the watchful daisies.  In the corner behind the love seat, was a bronzed sconce that housed a rarely lit candle, the hush that occurred beneath its potential glow rarely requiring illumination.

To the right of the worn couch that faced the fireplace, a full-sized, ornate wooden rocking chair morphed into existence. Tristan’s eyes briefly reached for its potential relaxation with his eyes, but then stopped, as it shimmered, momentarily gathered dust, then vanished.

A clock near the right corner flickered, and with a few, brief, haunting ticks and tocks, its hands slowly cycling backwards,  it faded then vanished, leaving the plain brick wall behind its ghost.  Below the phantom of the clock, a small oval-shaped table made of midnight black, lacquer-coated wood, took shape.  Atop the oval table sat a small, hand carved figurine.  The gargoyle was carved from zebra wood, and stood about 8 inches tall.  Both of the its feet were planted solidly on a thin, square, four inch by four inch base.  It’s wings were wrapped close to its body, and its head was bowed low to its chest. The rings and two links were remnants of broken shackles on the gargoyles wrists and ankles.  Tristan closed his eyes, and visualized the doors of a monastery.  He saw the great slabs of heavy, ornate cypress, with thick iron rings in his mind’s eye.  Images of smooth, circular pillars of fitted stone, tapestries hanging on the wall, colors muted with age, and dim, candle lit hallways,  swam through him.

It took them two full days to reach the monastery.  Their trek through the humid, steamy, forest was arduous, but in the end, rewarding.  The winding path through the mountains had been relatively well maintained, and their need to make camp, water, and love, were the only deviations from the trail.

The monk who ushered them in upon their arrival did not speak, but directed them to a cozy bedroom where they deposited their packs.  He gestured for them to follow him, and led them to the washroom, a large dining hall, the library, gallery, and then, the majestic courtyard at the center of the monastery.  When his tour was complete, he held his hand out towards them, and quickly pulled his fingers towards his palm, once again, encouraging them to follow him.  He led them down a hallway and to a small study.  On a plain-looking desk were several blocks of different kinds of wood.  The monk pointed at the blocks, then turned his hands so that his palms were upwards and close to each other, and held them out towards the pair.  They voiced their confusion, and debated between them the intent and direction that the monk was attempting.  The monk held up his hand, asking them to pause, and stepped around the desk.  He opened a drawer and retrieved a large book sized piece of slate, and a small chunk of white chalk.  He held the slate in front of him, and scribbled quickly upon its surface.  He turned the board around, and a single word was written, “Chose.”  Tristan turned to her and said, “Go ahead.”  Without hesitation, she walked forward and placed her hand on the zebra wood.

The next three days were spent enjoying long walks around the monastery, sharing secrets, and connecting deeply with each other.  They had late breakfasts, and early bedtimes.  They read in the library, and sipped tea in the garden.  They sat in the pure stillness of the courtyard, the occasional trill of a passing lark the only break in the tranquility.  And they enjoyed the concerts in the dining hall, the tinging and clinking of silverware and glassware were instruments in the otherwise silent monastery.

When three days had passed, they packed their belongings, and slowly made their way towards the great ornate doors.  Just before reaching them, the monk who had provided them with their initial tour approached.  In his hands he had an object wrapped in piece of sandalwood-colored leather.  He pulled back several flaps of the covering, and revealed the transformed block of zebra wood.

Tristan opened his eyes, and the zebra wood gargoyle began to fade, as did the table beneath.

The painting on the east wall stayed for a long time, time enough for Tristan to take a few steps toward it, his hand outstretched, reaching for the canvas.  The gold frame was ornate, decadent, with small gold feathers wrapped around its curvature.  It seemed unfitting for this place of cohabitation.  It belonged in a palace, the home of a regent, not in this simple home.  It was in complete contrast to the feeling they were entering into.  The painting was that of a thick-trunked tree. Its core, was of an obsidian wood.  This darkened main stem spread upward to ample branches, which extended towards a broad cobalt sky.  The tree was curiously leafless.  Wisps of billowy white clouds broke the blackened intrusion into the twilight blue expanse.  Where the indigo met the ground, the colors shifted, with the earth being a rich hue of coppery-brown.  The roots of the tree, in contrast to the pitch black of the trunk and branches, were pale white, resembled bones, and spread through the earth in a jagged and slightly erratic fashion.

Before he had an opportunity to touch the painting, it was reabsorbed into the brick wall, to some ghostly memory realm, in the recesses of his imagination.  The room was bare again, no more furniture filled the emptiness, no more randomly materializing items stimulated his imagination.  The smells from the kitchen had faded, and Tristan cocked his head curiously toward the stairway in the back right corner of the room.

“What is it?”

“Shhhh.”

“Do you hear something?”

Tristan walked toward the stairs, and what he first thought might have been the swinging of a poorly oiled door above them, turned out to be the intermittent giggle of a woman.  It was pleasant, cute, and mirthful, and after a few moments, gave way to full-out laughter.

The laughter faded quickly, and for the span of many breaths, Tristan heard nothing.  Then suddenly he heard a rustling sound, followed by a whoosh, and then several light objects landing on the floor.  Once again, there was a prolonged quietude.

“What are you hearing?”

“Hmmmmm?”

“I said, why are you standing deathly still, facing that stairway? It appears like you are listening to something, but I don’t hear a sound.”

“I thought there was something, but I was clearly mistaken.”

Tristan then heard slow, panting sounds coming from above them.  The long, drawn out exhales, sped up, and intensified.  Before long, they gave way to low moans, and then screams of ecstasy.

“Are you sure…..”

“Please, give me a few moments.”

After yet another long, expectant stillness, new sounds reached Tristan’s ears.

He heard anger fueled yelling, and the bellowing of expletives.  He heard soft, delicate whimpering and pleading.  He drew in the sound of wet, almost breathless sobs.  He heard deep nasally snoring.  He heard the scrape of wood from a window opening.  He heard the swishing sound of slippers on carpet.  He heard the sweet chirping of a finch, and two successive whistles, one high pitched, then one low.  He heard sawing, banging, hammering, then a terrific crash.  He heard the creaking of floorboards, and the firm slapping sound of bare feet on wood. Tristan listened to the sound of running water, and then the slow drip, drip, drip, of a leaky faucet.

All these came in a rush, an auditory assault that entered his ears.  Though he could pick out each as he heard them, the rapidity that they came resulted in a cacophony.  The tumultuousness had Tristan momentarily reeling, and a grimace formed on his face.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes.

“You looked inquisitive, and now look in pain.”

Tristan turned to look at her, and saw that she too, was fading.  When they entered the house, she had seemed concrete, but had since become pellucid.  Tristan reached out his hand, and she mirrored his movement.  Her diaphanous hand nearly touched his, he could nearly feel the spectral warmth of her skin.

And then she was gone.

The rest of the room began to evanesce. Tristan turned towards the door, and even that was winking out of existence.  The walls and floor around him quickly turned to white.  The last remaining solid item, was the opening mechanism on the door, which floated in the air, and then too began to disappear.

The final, visible, item, was a rectangular piece of metal, with a hollow keyhole.