Angelique Louise-Kristabelle Mortimer

There was never really any good reason why Angelique Louise-Kristabelle Mortimer wasn’t popular.

She was just as pretty as the other girls in her class at school. It wasn’t because of her nature; Angelique had never said a bad word about anyone. During the holiday season, Angelique was the very picture of generosity and would spend hours wrapping presents so they looked just right. She had never cussed, not once, not even after an unfortunate playground incident that left her in two leg casts at the tender age of twelve.

By the time she’d reached her final year of school, Angelique Louise Kristabelle Mortimer had pretty much given up on the idea of being popular. But that’s okay, she told herself as she watched other girls invite each other to parties or talk about the newest notch on their A4 folder.

Not everybody needs friends.

Or a social life.

And so she killed her evenings by sitting in front of the television. She became an expert on predicting the outcome of reality TV. She could tell you the names of every actor on every soap. She even knew what an advertisement was upon hearing the smallest fraction of its jingle.

Deep down, Angelique knew this wasn’t much of a life.

One sunny Friday afternoon, Angelique was on her way to the fish and chip shop. It was her families’ weekly treat. They all looked forward to eating in front of the TV, from those flimsy paper plates that most families probably saved for parties.

Heaven, thought Angelique as she walked along, is Friday night fish and chips.

This was partly to distract her from her thundering heart. There was always a crowd of girls hanging out at the Chippie and they sometimes whispered mean things behind their hands or shouted cruel words at her back but worst of all was when they ignored her as if she was some faceless collection of atoms that floated through the world, undeserving of even their scorn.

The Door was about halfway to the Chippie. Every time she walked past, Angelique felt its extraordinary pull. The Door was bright blood-red, as if it was perpetually freshly-painted, and it was segmented by those old fashioned black hinges. Right in the middle of The Door were two innocuous looking handles. Rumor had it that anyone who touched those handles would be cursed and, even though most people scoffed at such superstitious tomfoolery, hardly anyone dared to go past the dilapidated letterbox.

Those who did became overnight legends but only for a short while because - no matter how much people scoffed in the bright light of day - unfortunate accidents had a strange way of playing out. Mikey Delaney had touched the door one spring night and by autumn he’d knocked up four different girls. Shaun Fitzpatrick had done it a few years ago and was mown down by a rogue school bus the very next day. Even Larissa Nays daring midnight dash wasn’t enough to keep her from the curse. The following month she had gone into the hospital with stage three leukemia and never came back out.

If nobody was around, Angelique would often rest her elbows on the low brick fence and stare at The Door, wishing she had enough courage to become a legend herself and thinking that a little bit of bad luck is a small price to pay for a whole lot of popularity.

It was on that particular sunny Friday afternoon that Angelique failed to notice the girls walking back from the Chippie until it was too late.

“Angelique,” one girl said, leaning in so close Angelique could smell the cod on her breath “what are you doing?”

Angelique didn’t know what to say. That was part of her problem, really: she never had any snappy answers or flashy come-backs. So she laughed nervously, just like she always did.

“Angelique, why don’t you go touch the door?” Another girl wheedled. “You know you want to.”

And she did want to. She really, really did. The girls were all staring at her and she knew this was her own, real-life Survivor moment.

And so Angelique Louise-Kristabelle Mortimer threw back her shoulders, tucked in her t-shirt and marched through the gaggle of girls, past the dilapidated letterbox, over the unevenly paved path and right up to the blood-red door. She could sense the shock behind her. Perhaps that’s what gave her the courage to turn around and tip a wink at the girl with cod-breath before she reached out and touched those handles, which were so cold they almost burnt. And then, because Angelique didn’t want to be just another Larissa or Shaun or Mikey, she did the unthinkable.

She pushed the doors open.

And she slipped inside the house.

Behind her there was a scream and a flurry of flying feet.

The foyer was carpeted with dust. Zigzags of white light shone through the cracks in the boarded up windows. Spider webs hung like thick, luxurious curtains in distant corners.

Angelique couldn’t help smiling.

Because there was nothing creepy about the ancient cigarette butts in an old tin by the corner, or the layers of fast food wrappers that festooned the floor. There were beer bottles and cans so old their markings had disintegrated. There was even graffiti; ‘Aimee Smittie likes to kiss girls’ was scrawled across one wall in a loopy, juvenile hand.

And it was at that very moment that Angelique Louise-Kristabelle Mortimer realized how strong illusions could be, and how easy it can be to make your own curses come true if you really believe in them, and why people whispered things behind their hands when they saw how she walked with her shoulders hunched and her head hung low.

As she made her way to the chippie with a straight back and high head, Angelique wondered briefly if Mrs. Smittie still liked to kiss girls.





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