The Door Knocker

I do not remember what first pricked my interest in the art of the dead. I always had been a lover of art in all its intrinsic forms and as time passed, the insatiable hunger for beauty gnawed at the deepest recesses of my soul. Some considered me a bohemian while others deemed me a snob or an elitist. Nevertheless, I never did heed any of their appellations as they concerned me not. Like a child, I looked at the world around me without prejudice and discovered beauty where others could not. Early in life, I acquired a passion for photography and spent my days voraciously striving to capture the seductive and enthralling magic of life in its rawest embodiment. The twenty-first century digital world finally permitted me to search and capture beauty to my heart's desire, even as the longing for more of the elegance of life unleashed a ravenous beast seldom felt by even the most passionate of creatures. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my fervent quest would ultimately bring me face to face with the most terrifying beauty of all.

I had traveled a lot of the world and always was fascinated by the architecture of cemeteries. From the simple flat stones to the intricate mausolea, and by the elegance of the landscapes, I found them to be so silent yet so full of life. I remembered walking through the lanes of Le Père Lachaise in Paris, up and down the old stairs covered in ivy and dried leaves, making my way through woody hollows and was mesmerized by the beauty of each statue, stained glass and magnificent bronze door. Another cemetery that conjured images in my mind was La Recoleta in Buenos Aires. Like many other travelers, I made the pilgrimage to the gravesite of Eva Peron. I can still remember the small marble mausoleum with the family name "Duarte" chiseled in the front. The various bronze plaques that honored Argentina's beloved were adorned with small delicate flowers that crawled along the daedal ironwork and coffins could be seen through the clear glass window panes as if they had just been entombed only yesterday.

Despite this distinct memory of La Recoleta, Le Père Lachaise is firmly etched in my soul for all eternity since it is here that my terrifying tale takes place. Even today I can still smell the crisp spring air permeating my nostrils and feel the sensuous caress upon my skin from the gentle breeze of that lazy morning.

I had traveled to Paris for the sole purpose of taking pictures of funerary art for an upcoming exhibit that would take place in San Francisco later that year. I spent days scouring lesser known cemeteries such as those in Monparnasse and Montmartre, saving my last two days to discover Le Père Lachaise and in hopes of losing myself in my art.

On the morning of this horrifying encounter I slept a little later than usual and despite feeling a bit restless at the thought of my visit. I did not know what had borne the strain in my heart but I felt compelled to explore it fully that day. Upon arrival at the famed cemetery I stood still for what seemed an eternity in front of the entrance listening to the rapid beat of my heart. It began as a low tick-tock sound that gradually grew to a loud drumming ringing insistently in my ears. I did not know why this place held such an awe-inspiring reaction, yet I could sense the allure slowly propagating deep inside me. As I stood before the threshold I admired the high granite walls and the sculptured hourglass archways that stood in contrast to the cement blocks and chains pathway. I marveled at such antithesis of brutal banality against ultimate greatness. I noticed a gray cat lying on the cobblestones, its hind leg in the air cleaning itself lazily with not a care of its surroundings. I smiled at the sight and proceeded through the entrance. I was not concerned, nor did I care about the famous people buried here. I simply wanted to shoot fragments, etchings of the past, fragments of the now so that I could meld them together to prevail upon a synthesis of sublime wholeness.

I walked down the main lane, admiring the small mausoleums and marble slabs along the way. My fingers brushed against the abrasive granite as I angled my camera to shoot the profile of an angel. Its head was bent in grief, rivulets of dark green and brown mire indelibly sullied its delicate cheek as if life had forsaken his soulless eyes so long ago. Suddenly I saw something out of the corner of my eye, a brief movement, perhaps a glimpse of a phantasm harkening its prey near. I lowered my camera to search out the entity that beckoned me, but only saw another walkway. I moved onto the small cobblestone walkway and followed its winding path leading down a tree-lined route to what I knew was the oldest part of the cemetery. I continued to search the shadows of the trees and sculptures in hopes of ascertaining what had caught my attention, but to no avail. Perplexed, I looked around me and found old dilapidated steps going up the hill. Some of them were cracked by roots that overtook the stairs so long ago, while others appeared swallowed whole by the ravenous earth as if ready to return to the days of Eden. My heartbeat accelerated when I noticed an old structure up the hill that leered down through a dense coppice of green trees.

At the enticing sight I started my ascent through the narrow path, carefully holding my camera in one hand while balancing against the ivy-covered stone wall with the other. When I reached the precipice of hallowed ground I stood silent looking at the edifice standing tall before me. The granite mausoleum was surrounded by tall walls and a mound of thickets that kept the area private from the main roads and other nearby tombs. Its shape stood apart from any that I had ever seen in the west. Rather than a traditional western tomb, this one was circular and resembled the mausoleums found in Pakistan, in particularly the shrine of Shah Rukn-i-Alam in Multan. The dome shaped roof was crested by what appeared to be a crown and at its base overhung four hideous gargoyles. The two guardians of the tomb stood by each side of the bronze door. Their tall, imposing figures were shrouded in a cloak, their bent heads hidden by their hoods and within their clawed paws they held long sword as if ready for battle. As I approached, I noticed that where the faces should have been stood empty holes, the gnarled marble remains staring down vacantly. I shuddered at the spectral figures standing before me. I felt the loud beat of my heart hammering at my temples as I stood frozen in place. Although the door was closed, I could see from the cross shaped holes alongside the door the reflection of shiny stained glass lining the back wall. When I turned away from this small opening I noticed the intricate door knob and this is when I saw it.

The heavy door held an ornate bronze knocker shaped in the face of a lion, its majestic teeth bared ferociously as if to warn outsiders away. I had seen similar items many times in the past during my aimless photographic wanderings and never thought much of them, until now. I smiled at the absurdity of its presence upon a tomb. Why would the designers of this majestic memorial bother to integrate such an impractical article to a door that was meant to be sealed for generations? Was the original creator so delusional that he could even fathom anyone ever answering? I pondered all of the similar designs and wondered if the architects ever thought of the silliness of their designs. This is when it hit me. What would happen if I knocked on such an imposing door? What would happen besides the fact that I might look stupid if anyone ever saw me? I could not help that uncanny sensation flowing throughout my being, but like Eve, I became tempted - I had to do it.

I slowly walked up the steps to the large bronze entrance. My fingers gripped my camera so tightly that I could feel the blood draining from each digit. My knuckles turned a ghostly white as my fingernails began to turn blue, the tell-tale sign that my circulation had slowed. Despite this I peered into the cross-shaped holes and saw a lone black marble sarcophagus standing in the middle of the atrium, highlighted by the kaleidoscope of colors emanating from a roman-shaped stained glass window. Instinctively my hand clasped on the door knob and I turned it ever so slowly. I smiled as it remained tightly locked. With a sigh of relief I lay my cheek against the door and felt its smoothness on my skin. Oddly the door was extremely warm and rather than allowing my macabre thoughts to wander, I blamed such anomaly on the morning sun. I looked around me and noticed no one, then proceeded to rap the doorknocker loudly against the lion's jaw.

Dead silence followed as I stood there. For an instant it felt as if the slight breeze had disappeared, its gentle touch along the tall tree tops had ceased and the birds melodic chirping grew deathly silent. Before my foolish thought could reign I started giggling to myself nervously as I shook my head and hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. "Stupid fool" I muttered under my breath as I turned around to begin my descent down the stairs and this is when I heard it.

I abruptly froze in place as I heard the slight swishing sound of air leaving a closed room as the crypt slowly opened. The screeching sound of rusty hinges or metal against stone like one is so accustomed to hear in horror movies did not happen. No, the only noise that resonated was the knob being turned and the clank of an unknown object resounding against the door. I felt the blood drain from my face and sudden panic wash over me. I knew I should have left at once, but my curiosity took the best of me and kept me from fleeing this godforsaken place

As I looked at my camera a multitude of thoughts crossed my mind. What an opportunity it would be to shoot images of the unknown. With the pure adrenaline coursing through my veins the idea that I could be in danger never crossed my mind. When I slowly turned around I discovered one of the doors wide open. I cautiously entered and left the right panel of the door ajar behind me. As the partially opened door cast a shadow throughout the inner-sanctum I could feel the temperature in the room drop. I saw the mist of my breath with each exhalation and noticed a chill flutter against my skin, yet I could not smell the scent of decaying flesh nor death. The black marble sarcophagus stood majestic at the center of the chamber. My hands grazed one of the cherub figures resting on each side of the tomb when I noticed its likeness to the Ark of the Covenant. Shivers glided down my spine as I ran my fingers though my hair in a vain attempt trying to rein in the forewarning sense of doom. I could not read a name, but a small epitaph was chiseled on the side of the tomb that read "In eternity I will look for you, always". At the entrance to the crypt, above the frame were etched the words "Mine, forever mine". A myriad of questions flooded my mind and I could not help but ponder the identity of my host. Were they a man, a woman, or maybe both? I was unable to find any trace of the occupant's identity.

I held on to the ironwork balustrade and started my descent down the winding, old marble stairs. Torches on the walls flickered from a slight breeze and broke through the dimness of the hall. The mustiness of the room assaulted my nostrils and I felt stifled in my close confinement. I briefly flirted with the idea to get the hell out of there, but dismissed it immediately. I was compelled by a force beyond my means and I had to find out what had let me into these hallow chambers. I surmised that my mind was playing tricks with me and that most likely the door had been unlocked all along, but once again, I rejected all rhyme or reason and proceeded to continue my tenebrous and mystic excursion. As I descended further down the chilly depths, I noticed the slimy mold on the water worn stones of the wall. Its putrid, repugnant odor filled the cavern and made me queasy. When I finally reached the bottom of the stairs I found myself staring at the most magnificent rotunda I had ever laid my eyes upon. I felt reverence at the lavishness of such passageway. The bare floor and walls were tiled with Makrana marble and the vaulted ceiling was at least thirty feet above the ground. A large fresco on the ceiling depicted interlacing, partially clad women being led upon the clouds to the heavens by an unknown goddess, its vibrant colors and style reminiscent of a Francesco Albani's painting. The gilded crown molding delineated the vaulting transforming it into a resplendent canvas. Two giant chandeliers completed the classical rococo look. I could see four other rooms on the sides of the rotunda. As I stood transfixed by such exquisite beauty a tear slowly glided down my cheek. I suddenly remembered the camera I was holding and started shooting. I completely immersed myself in the magnificence of the place as I snapped to my heart's content. The muffled sound of footsteps brought me back to reality causing a foreboding dread to envelop me.

I entered the first chamber to my left as if to flee the world beyond the corridor. I found a small chapel with various candelabras burning candles below a portrait of the Virgin Mary. In the center of the room was a granite altar on which laid the statue of a prostrating young woman with her arms above her head acknowledging her utmost humility. I moved toward the swivel bookstand that held an old book. A name was etched on the leather-bound cover. I silently pronounced the syllables - Isabella di Montevano. It was the same name as the one chiseled on the granite in front of the altar. It also read the dates of 1821 - 1846. When I opened the book I realized that it was a diary written in Italian. I only got as far as the first page before closing it quickly, while cautiously glancing over my shoulder for what, I did not know. I could not help the feeling that I was trespassing on someone's precious private memento. A chill ran through my veins as I had the distinct feeling that I was being observed and turned around to find no one. I wondered if my quixotic imagination was starting to play tricks with my mind once again.

I took some pictures before walking out of the room cautiously and returned to the rotunda. The silence was deafening and I could feel my hair rise on the back of my neck as I approached the second entrance. The sudden rise in temperature disconcerted me as I entered the chamber and I took off my sweater. I discovered a room so vastly different. The walls were half-tiled with Moorish ceramic of Safi design and from the ceiling hung a Moroccan style brass Koutobia lantern that reflected in the silver and bone mirror on the opposite wall as the soothing sound of water trickled from the pale yellow and blue tile fountain on the left wall. I gazed at the scene with astonishment. A large gold and gem incrusted hand of Fatima had been encased in the alcove and I could not help myself but trace its outline with my fingers. I could not discern a name but saw the dates of 1848 - 1908 engraved under the Islamic symbol. It is then that I noticed the prayer rug laying there as if someone had just finished salah and their rak'at. I picked up the golden leaf Green leather Qur'an and opened it to read the first words "In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful." I marveled at the beauty of the Nashki calligraphy, closed the book and put it back on the rug. The feel of someone touching my shoulder startled me. Defensively, I abruptly turned on my heels but found no one. Once again my camera captured what I had witnessed. They say that curiosity killed the cat and I should have listened once more to the feelings warning of danger, but I could not stop at this point, I had to find out who had let me in.

I continued down to the third room and detected a faint scent of jasmine wafting through the air. My heart started beating faster and I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds to inhale the smell of splendor that is life. I followed the fragrance to a cedar door that had carved silver inlaid panels wide open. I stopped in my tracks within a dilapidated room as the scent disappeared. Unlike the two previous chambers this one appeared to have been forgotten by time. The plaster on the cobweb covered ceiling was cracked in some places and was scattered across the floor, exposing gaping holes. Muddy water and slime dripped down the crumbling bare walls. When I mustered the courage to enter this empty room, I noticed a wooden crate peeking out of the shadows. Above it crudely etched on the wall were the date markings of 1923 - 1944. I kneeled down and lifted the rag covering its contents and gasped upon discovering the tattered, blood-splattered cloth that resembled a stripped concentration camp uniform. With shaky hands I lifted the cloth and released a terrified shriek as I beheld the horrific sight of ashes strewn within the box. I stood up suddenly as I felt a slight breath against the nape of my neck and dropped the cloth on the floor.

In my haste, I slipped on a broken tile and fell forward. Instinctively I tried to protect my camera with my left hand and landed on my wrist. I heard a snap and saw a blinding white flash as I felt unbearable pain coursing through my arm. My camera went crashing on the cement floor and I heard a hoarse guttural scream forming in my throat.

"No?" I winced in disbelief as I held back my tears.

I lifted myself and leaned against the decrepit wall panting wildly as cold sweat dripped down my spine. My forearm began to swell; the circulation to my arm was cut off by my wrist watch. Frantically I tried to unsnap it as the pain grew unbearable

"Come on! Fuck! Oh my god, oh my god. No, no, no," I sighed in relief when I finally managed to snap the bracelet open. I closed my eyes vainly attempting to control the agony I was experiencing as I shivered uncontrollably.

I felt soothing warmth surround me in that bitter cold and knew instinctively that my body was going into shock. My arm was broken, but the pain kept me from moving. I was frozen in the dark, soulless cavern. On more than one occasion my stomach lurched, threatening to empty what little it held. As the miasma of my situation took control, I felt myself slowly drifting into a silent peace. Before I could disappear into blackness, a soft, soothing sound brought me fully awake.

My lids flew open when I heard the faint sounds of singing. I tried to detect where it came from, but only caught the sound echoing off the chamber walls. When I craned my head to one side, I heard the song coming from the last room. The feminine voice was soft yet rich in the quality of its tone. The tempo of the song was slow, an adagio filled with lament. Each pianissimo a struggle to comprehend, yet I struggled futilely. When the song crescendo, I realized that the words held no meaning, they were indescribable and perhaps this is how it was meant to be. Such angelic words could not be understood by a mere mortal. For a brief moment I wondered if I was hallucinating, was the pain so great that I was losing all reason?

"Help me!" I whispered. "Please, help me." Dead silence followed.

I waited for an interminable amount of time for an answer, a response to my pleas, but it was in vain. The sound of my voice echoed in the silence and slowly disappeared into the cavernous abyss. At the futility of my situation I heard myself scream as I lost all control.

"Stop toying with me! Help me! I'm hurt! I hurt so badly," I wept. "Who ever you are, help me!" I begged, but was left in silence. The only noise that was heard was the nearby fountain. I noticed the rip on my jeans as the blood sipped from my scraped knee. The pain in my forearm was so excruciating that I didn't even notice the other aches and pains.

I lifted myself off the floor with the help of the wall and slowly limped to the last room where I had heard the singer. Standing in the room alone did not surprise me any longer as the rationality of my senses had been impaired since I first entered this tomb. The chamber was Zen-like, peaceful and my panic stricken mind calmed down at once. I felt as if the pain had vanished yet I could still not lift my arm. Water was flowing down the back wall of the room into a small natural stone pool. I approached it and while carefully holding my broken arm, I let my good left hand float with the small current. I rinsed my face and collected some water into my palm before letting it drip down my back. I stood there with my eyes closed for what seemed an eternity as I let myself enter the cocoon of stillness. I sensed no pain or fear, just calm and serenity and the acceptance of an uncertain fate.

Before being lulled into this tranquility I heard a murmur coming out of the alcove on the side of the room that beckoned me near. I followed the voice and entered the chamber. I felt the unbearable pain returning to my arm as my tears started to fall freely down my sullied face. Before I realized it, fear ran through me at once. This is when I finally saw her, the most magnificent creature that I had ever encountered. She was statuesque, regal and elegant. Her dark eyes locked with mine and in them I saw love in all its purity and splendor. When she leaned toward me, I felt her long black curls brush against my arm. The specter reached for my good hand and slowly brought it up to her lips. I shuddered with abandon when she slowly lowered her inviting mouth upon mine. Her lips lingered upon my cheek for an instant before she pulled away and raised my chin with her index finger.

"Not yet," was all she said as she walked out of the room.

Mesmerized, I brought my fingers to my lips. This is when I saw the open sarcophagus on the side of the room. A raised life like sculpture of a woman dancing with the specter of Death stood behind it. I could not help but notice the familiarity of her features. Forgetting my pain, I approached it. It was empty, but then sudden terror enveloped me. The encryption etched on the marble was a name - my name!

I ran from the room in shear horror and became disoriented by my surroundings. I finally found the stairs that would bring me back to the outside world and ran up the steps as if the devil himself was chasing me. In pure survival mode I ran until I could no longer feel the persistent ache of my arm. With each breath I took my lungs started to burn. When I reached the main chamber, I stopped and bent over, holding my sides as I tried to catch my breath. This is when I noticed that the door had closed. I screamed in frustration and anger as I futilely tried to pry it open. I banged on it with my fists, completely disregarding the pain of my broken arm. I scratched at it with my fingernails and hit it with my shoulders and my feet, until I lost consciousness.

I did not know how long I floated in oblivion. I only knew that when I tentatively opened my eyes, I saw the clear blue sky above me. A young man was in the process of putting an intravenous needle into my arm, while another was trying to stabilize my injured arm. I realized that I was lying on a gurney, with an oxygen mask above my nose. I felt as if my whole body had been broken and I could not move.

"Ne vous inquiétez pas, l'hôpital est très proche," The blond EMT technician reassured me. "Witnesses said that you have been robbed and beaten Madame, don't worry, it will all be all right," he stated with confidence.

I closed my eyes and fell back into a state of semi-consciousness as I felt them lifting me into the ambulance. I smiled wearily as I knew that it was not a post-traumatic dream. Not only had I been allowed the extraordinary vision to discover some of my past lives, but I had been kissed by Death herself, before she had let me go. Why I was released I would never know, but I felt strangely comforted by the inevitable notion that we would undoubtedly meet again.