Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Chilling Shivers to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
There is a door beneath the stairs where the cellar steps descend,
And it's always locked from the inside, though no one lives at the end.
My father would not mention it, my mother made us swear,
That we would never touch its knob, nor linger, nor dare.
But the night the storm cut all the lights, I heard a gentle knock,
Three raps, then a pause, and then the scratching of a lock.
The door was open just a crack, and the darkness breathed out cold,
And a voice as old as timber said, come down, and be consoled.
I stood there on the top step with my candle and my dread,
And I saw a hundred footprints leading in, but none that came out instead.
I shut the door and slid the bolt and I sat there till the day,
And I've never touched that door again, and I never will, I say.
Poet of Chilling Shivers · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
Almost every old house has one door that nobody opens. This poem tells what happens on the night a storm gives the door its chance to open from the inside.
There is “a door beneath the stairs” that is “always locked from the inside, though no one lives at the end.” The father won’t mention it, and the mother makes the children swear they would “never touch its knob.” During a storm blackout the speaker hears “a gentle knock, three raps, then a pause, and then the scratching of a lock.”
The door opens “just a crack,” and “the darkness breathed out cold.” A voice “as old as timber” says, “come down, and be consoled.” The speaker sees “a hundred footprints leading in, but none that came out instead,” shuts the door, slides “the bolt” and never touches it again.