Dale had made out like he really thought there would be something in the old tome, but as he sat down on his bed in his quiet house (dinner had been subdued and quick: pizza delivery, pieces shoved mindlessly into mouths, then various family members had disappeared into their respective areas of the house), and opened the Book of Worlds, he realised how ludicrous it was. Zindel had written the thing, after all – he should have known one way or the other.
But he read anyway, from the start, analysing each word, each sentence, not knowing what he was searching for, only that if he didn’t find it he was going to have to wake up his family and convince them that the whole world was going to die if they didn’t follow him into a secret trapdoor in some stranger’s house.
When he reached the crucial chapter, On Closing Doors, he read it through and, settling on one particular paragraph, his heart froze. The section detailing the closing of doors was so badly scorched that it took me a day to make out what I needed, and even then half a page was lost to me completely.
That was it, wasn’t it? The scorched pages had concealed something, some secret that you had to know to close the door. Only that didn’t quite make sense, because a moment later Zindel wrote: Fortunately, whatever was written there must not have mattered, because when I broke the key in half and spoke: ‘Claudo’ the door shut. So whatever was hidden, it hadn’t mattered. Or else, Dale thought, it had mattered, and Zindel had done it without knowing it.
He flipped back to the beginning and started again. It seemed straightforward: a beast followed him to Earth and mauled a child. Zindel closed the door the same way Brian had, and three days later found the animal, so he said, without a soul. He was certain the door closing had done it. What if it wasn’t the door at all? What if he didn’t close it properly after all, and the beast died of something else, some random disease. Oh, shit, what if Zindel never closed that door at all?
Dale closed his eyes for a second and then opened them again. No, it couldn’t be that. Zindel said he’d seen the outline of the door disappear. Was there something else that had happened? Some other event that had sealed the door closed finally, but something Zindel didn’t consciously do?
So, from the book, what event? The mauling of a small child? Dale laughed out loud, a shaky, hysterical laugh he didn’t like the sound of at all, but before it took hold of him he stopped, abruptly, and stared at the page. What if that was it? An innocent sacrifice. The door opened with blood, so it must be closed with blood. The thought had an uncomfortable ring of truth.
He mulled it over, and decided on two things. Firstly, there was nowhere near enough proof to be certain of it. Sure, it was the only event written that may have had an impact, though Zindel didn’t seem to think so, but there was something else: The book which I had to use (the same one that contained the method to open the doors) was badly burned on account of the previous owner attempting to destroy it… Now what the hell did that mean? Why would someone try to destroy a book they wrote? Especially since opening a door was no big deal, just a few carvings in a tree and a little cut on the hand. So why burn that last bit? Unless the burned section mentioned that to close a door you needed a sacrifice.