1. Just A Door
URSULA
"AND LAST, BUT NOT LEAST, here's the supply closet."
I peer into the narrow supply closet behind the break room, packed floor-to-ceiling with boxes and wire shelves. The light flickers once overhead as my new boss goes to exit the break room, expecting me to follow behind.
"Where does that go?" I ask before I can stop myself, pointing to the strange door in the back. Storage areas don't usually have one regular door plus a mysterious second one, right? And there's this ominous atmosphere about it, like it's steeped with secrets and magic.
Which is weird to say, considering I'm in the real world. But, to be fair, serial killers exist, and it's possible one could be using the bank as a place to store bodies.
I stifle a snort. Way to be morbid, Ursula.
Mr. Dave hesitates, his mouth twitching at my question as annoyance—or could it be concern?—crosses his expression. I pull into myself, suddenly feeling so out of place. It's my first day. I should just shut up and let the man get on with his tour. It's not my fault this place is an above-ground bunker box of boring. Even the windows are more decorative than useful. The door is the only interesting thing about this place.
I can't decide if that's sad or purposeful, considering this is a bank.
My new boss forces a smile and flicks out the light. The sudden darkness looks alive, shadows appearing to shift when I avert my eyes. "There's nothing we need in there."
I nod quickly, wishing I hadn't asked.
Mr. Dave smooths his blazer and stands upright, his five-foot-four stature a whole head beneath my own.
A chill works its way down my spine as we exit and he brings me to the teller line, tapping the marbled counter. "This is where you'll be sitting. Count your drawer three times a day, and lock it in the vault when your shift's over. We don't work weekends, and stay wary of your surroundings. You never know what kind of creep is scoping out this place."
I nod, feeling underqualified and overwhelmed all at once. The only other place I'd worked before was the grocery store as a cashier. Now I'm a teller at this small bank with only five other employees: another teller, a new accounts person named Hannigan, three loan officers whose names I don't know yet, and the manager, Mr. Dave. People having first names as last sounds strange, but his first name is Larry, so I don't blame him for wanting to be called anything other than Larry Dave.
Then again, my parents named me Ursula—like the witch—so I don't have any room to talk.
Mr. Dave comes across as eccentric, wearing a cat tie that clashes with his maroon button-up and navy pants and jacket. His wide smile is lopsided, and his eyes look ready to pop out of their sockets. If it weren't for his larger, squished nose, he'd be a cartoon character.
The overhead lights make his bald head glint as he leads me to the key box clear across the teller line. His long fingers snake through the keys lined inside easily, and he unhooks about four of them, placing them in my open palms all while chatting about the three cats he takes care of at home. Apparently, he has a wife in real estate and three kids—two in middle school and one in elementary.
I file the information away in case I attempt to hold a conversation with him in the future.
He dabs his dark, sweat-dappled forehead with his pocket square as we head for the teller line, where the other teller can show me the ropes. I'm only working part-time, but hopefully not for long. Living with your parents has its perks, but it often costs your sanity.
And I'd love to be sane again.
"Hannigan will finish up with you," he says quickly, waving her over. She daintily gallops over with a pinched smile.
Her peppered copper hair spins into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, frizzy from the humid Texas heat. Bedazzled glasses straps glimmer as they drape across her shoulders while she complains about the company between disapproving head shakes. There isn't a training program, per se, not a live one, but everything I need to know is online, on the bank's encrypted website.
I keep my comments to myself as she gets me situated, saying we'll set up my drawer tomorrow. Until then, I'll have my eyes glued to the monitor and the faces of regular customers, trying to commit each one to memory.
By closing time, my swollen brain's begging for sleep. Numbers, dollar signs, and too many regulations flash before my eyes, and I know they'll haunt my dreams tonight. I've also never felt a need to protect myself as much as I do after all those robbery trainings.
"Please check the back areas, and then we'll set the alarm and head out," Hannigan says with a pinched smile, her glasses slipping down her nose.
"Yes ma'am," I respond, my voice barely louder than a whisper. I doubt she even heard me.
I try not to mentally scold myself. Others have compared me to a mouse for years, but I made a vow to myself to be bolder. To speak up. And that's not going to stop just because I'm around new people, at a new job. You'd think at nineteen I'd have some semblance of personality, but I'm a walking Manila folder. Maybe I belong in this boring bank. The only thing interesting about me is art, and maybe the fact I'm not so introverted onstage.
How original—a girl with self-confidence issues.
I exhale heavily as I swing across the hallway and into the bathrooms, checking the stalls and listening for shifting or breathing. A crack makes me jump, but it's just the building settling, thank the Lord. Hannigan said this place was haunted, then fondly mentioned scaring one of the police officers who guards the bank with ghost stories. Otherwise, nothing significant has happened in the five years she's been here.
It's insane what kinds of dangers someone working at a bank could find themselves in. Wish I'd thought of that beforehand. I don't know karate or taekwondo or anything like that, and it's not like I can afford a gun. The most experience I have is a choreographed sword-fight scene for Cyrano, and even then, I only knew it because I thought it looked cool and memorized it. My twin brother, Sean, complained when I forced him to learn it too, but it's not like any of it would help in a real duel.
The bathroom door slams louder than I intended, and I let out a quiet, "Sorry," to whatever ghosts linger before heading for the break room. I tug open the door to the supply closet and take a look around, swearing I hear something whispering unintelligible things in my ear. But instead of retreating, it's like something wraps around my insides and wills me to come closer. Like those whispers grow tenfold.
I enter the dim, tiny room as a trickle of ice melts through my cardiovascular system, a shiver shaking my shoulders. The temperature drops five degrees as I reach for the handle. My stomach knots, a menacing warning as my eyes lift to the sign printed on the door.
KEEP OUT
I purse my lips and jiggle the handle, finding it locked. Mr. Dave said there wasn't anything in here we needed, but what if someone's hiding? What if we come in tomorrow morning and find a robber waiting? We're supposed to check every nook and cranny in our building before leaving.
I could pick the lock if I had a bobby pin, and that's if I worked up the courage. I don't have the duress code memorized, and I surely can't pretend like I'll have complete control over my bladder if they hold a gun to my head.
God, please don't let an intruder be in there.
I bite my cheek as some anxiety subsides and exit, chewing on my tongue as I meet Hannigan and Mr. Dave at the side door. They ask if everything's okay, and I give a tense nod.
"I think so. Um, but that door in the storage closet—"
"Don't touch it," Mr. Dave interjects sharply, something lighting in his eyes as they snap to me with startling intensity. His smile stiffens for a heartbeat before it grows easy once more. I'd say he's brimming with paranoia, but... maybe that's my own talking. And maybe I hallucinated those voices. Mom always said I had an overactive imagination.
Mr. Dave dabs his bald head with his pocket square, but he grins easily, a strange tingling sensation wafting through the air, like it's been supercharged. Something shifts in my chest, and I just know he's hiding something—and it has to do with that door. But who am I to jump off the deep end like that? I just met these people today, not counting my original interview. I don't know this man. How haughty would it be to assume my gut feeling is correct?
"Sorry," I mutter for the umpteenth time today as my nerves flare. Way to go me, ticking off the boss on the first day and risking unemployment in this economy. In my defense, I was doing what I was asked. But the last thing I want to do is step on his toes. He's been working here longer than Hannigan, which means he must be running this place well if it hasn't crumbled by now.
I hope.
I glance at Hannigan, who doesn't flinch as she types in the code to arm the bank, and we exit. When I glance back at the green windowpanes and pale building, I do my best to shove the paranoid thoughts deep down and bury them in a grave in the depths of my mind. There's nothing to be worried about. Banks are plain, boring (unless there's a robbery), and that's fine by me. I collect money, make deposits, and go home. There's no boogeyman lurking behind the locked door in the storage room of the bank. No monster or blob or Mothman waiting for release from its dark prison.
But as I climb into my bright red car, it's like a snake has coiled around my brain, squeezing tight. Once it lets go, there's a tingling on my tongue like the residue left behind by a cereal made with too many chemicals. Ever so slowly, the strange thrall the door had over me vanishes, and I wonder why in the world it took up so much space in my thoughts. After all, it's just a door.
