December 1

Twenty-four Doors: Do Not Open Door Number 1

James Brundrett is not a creative writer, according to his own words. He is someone I worked with up until December of last year. We—in a business vernacular—were called art handlers. This is a broad description. Essentially, we go into people’s homes and remove objects of value for auction houses or private sales. The job is mainly difficult physical labor, pretenses of politeness, and a heavy dose of cover your ass. Often, we are asked to travel long distances in large trucks with little or no information about where we are heading. One of the larger companies that we work for is called [redacted]. If you or anyone you know has been involved in the world of high-priced furniture or art, you will easily connect the dots. They have locations in all the “Major” cultural centers around the world. This story of a job was told to me early last year. I encouraged James to share it here and made him sign up for Substack. I have seen the pictures and some other evidence. He is not the kind of person to make something like this up. The details and the season in which this took place align perfectly with this community project. I believe these true events provide a great starting point for all the reasons outlined below. I think you will find this experience quite unsettling if not terrifying. James wrote in his own words and is sharing some of the documentation. I did not edit or rewrite any of this. I cannot thank him enough. -Nathan

Hello. These are the things that occurred. The job was in western Massachusetts in December of 2023. The auction house sent me a list of items to pick up. The list is never correct. Most of the time, the address is also incorrect. The team almost always heads into these situations blind. There are a few items that are priorities, but the specialists pick and choose what to collect when we are on location.

Pulling the truck onto this long driveway was the first sign that this would be a difficult job. The home was fine. Some paint was needed, but the landscaping was maintained, and there was a cobblestone walkway that led to the bilco doors. The other doors were going to be a problem as they were not designed for the modern era of constant moving.

The first real issue was an old, almost folly-like metal crank sculpture. It was blocking the main entrance. It was not attached to anything. It seemed to exist only as a hindrance. See the picture below.

This picture was also an odd thing. I take pictures a lot for the job. I try to have documentation of the state things are in. If something breaks in transport, or if it is broken before we move it, I want to have a picture. But after multiple attempts at taking a photo of this folly, the framing was never quite right. I tried lining things up and using the zoom function. I even turned the whole phone off and on again. I figured the lens was dislodged or broken somehow. You will see more evidence of the malfunctioning device as I go through some of the strange ways these photos were oriented or enlarged. Ultimately, we were not going to be moving this folly, so I gave up trying to capture it on film.

The specialist and I entered the house through the mudroom and headed into the kitchen. It was covered with kitchen equipment. I won’t detail all of it, but they had 7 mandolins, which hopefully speaks to the volume of items. We don’t sell this stuff, and another company would take most of it. But we needed to go through everything. Looking for silver. There was none. Lots of cash, though. Loose cash change and hundreds of old receipts.

The artwork that was scattered about was very strange. The pieces were all unsigned, and the specialist did not know if any of the paintings or photographs were worth anything. This happens a lot. Most of the eccentric homeowners dabble in art. They will display their own work. Some of the photos I tried to take came out so bizarrely. I wanted to do an image search on them. I again tried to use my phone camera, but for whatever reason, only parts of the picture would appear on my phone. This version of image distortion is particularly creepy.

I was messing with the phone for so long that the specialist had to nudge me to get back to work. The clouds outside were very dark, and that pre-snow heavy moisture was in the air. We needed to hustle if we were going to get anything out before the wet weather started.

I know from experience that people like the former owners of this home often shove stuff in the crawl space or attic. So, I went up the stairs and through the master bedroom. In the back of a closet stuffed with old clothes was a small plywood trap door. I moved it out of the way, and there was the crawl space. Several loose planks of wood were covering pink insulation. There were trash bags and some Christmas decorations. On the far wall was a slated window, about two feet long. It must have been snowing hard outside because a lot of snow was blowing in through that small window. The snow gust sort of split into two distinct lines and wrapped around a piece of furniture in the center of the room. It was a short shelf, for lack of a better term. It was about three feet tall and the shape of an X, but on its side. Not upright with a triangle at the bottom, but on its side with the triangles facing you. I thought at first it was a bookshelf or an expensive CD rack.

I examined the piece, and it was worm-eaten. There was an object on one of the shelves. It appeared to be a magnifying glass/ashtray or light fixture. Underneath it was an old piece of paper wrapped around a key that had a strange brooch attached to it. Sorry, I am sure someone else could describe these items better, but so much of this stuff was unfamiliar to me, despite having done work like this for many years. On the piece of paper wrapped around the key was a handwritten note.

It said, “Do not open door number 1. Don’t.”

Oddly, this photo came out fine.

At the time, I had no idea what it meant. I also could not have cared less. I was wasting time, and if it was snowing this hard and it was this blustery out, we needed to hustle to get the paintings and other items out. The whole thing was starting to feel unreal. Like a hallucination. I kept trying to accomplish my job, but everything was off slightly, just enough to distract me or make me wait. I pocketed the key and note. When I went back downstairs, I genuinely got frightened for the first time. There was no snow on the ground or in the sky. Not even any moisture on the cobblestones or truck. I think it can snow at higher altitudes and not show up on the ground, but this was only a difference between the first floor and the attic. I guess it is possible. I asked a few of the other people around. Nothing. No snow. I remember thinking, “What am I doing here. What is going on?”

A few items had been removed, and the art bin in the back of the truck was filling up. The frames were worth keeping if nothing else. Someone told me there was a large flat file cabinet in the basement.

They also told me it was locked.

We would need to empty it if we wanted to move it. We would also need to see what was inside. I did not get a chill or a shiver, but it was not a good feeling. I knew I had the key the moment they said it. I think I will say at this point, it felt like a nightmare. Like I was running in mud. I just had a sick confined feeling. Like I was stuck and lacked the strength to free myself. I was Ill from claustrophobia or being restrained. Not panicked but nauseated

The basement was also full of odd stuff. Lots of old boating equipment and more surreal, unsigned art. I tried to take pictures of everything. More because I was curious about what would show up than any attempt to document the condition. There were animal bones and terracotta heads. Someone had drawn or painted a face on the wall. There was also a very large painting of a woman in red. The proportions were off. The bottom part of the body was scrunched in. It looked like something an amateur painter might have done. But the canvas was so large, and there was a lot of attention to fine details. Something about it felt too intentional. I have never seen anything quite like it, especially at this size, 6’ x 5’. I will share some pictures below. Or at least what came out in the photos. The camera phone was working correctly occasionally, but that feature was very inconsistent.

I am agnostic at best, but seeing that flat file left certain impressions. Seeing that each door on the cabinet had a locking mechanism gave me flashes of a hellscape. Not a movie depiction or some silly religious cartoon. It reminded me of pure burning dread, like something inevitable or impending. I kept trying to accomplish my job or go about business as usual, but I was being halted by something outside of myself. “Do not open door number 1,” felt like a barrier not to be crossed.

I had the key in my hand. I stuffed the note back in my pocket, hiding it. Not wanting to see it again. I wasn’t shaking, not yet. This was all happening in real time.

I had a job to do. I was with other people.

I felt obligated to open it. I felt the pressure of performance and labor.

Each door of the flat file had a numbered label 1-12. 1 was at the top. I unlocked the first door and pulled it. Inside was a single printed photo. The photo showed a rusted metal sheet in the middle of a field. The field was burnt black, and there were open concrete slabs behind it. I got this photo of it.

Taped to the back of this photo was a second key. Written on the back of this photo was, “Don’t open drawer number 2. Please.”

That was it. Fuck it. I said out loud. I threw the photo and key back in the cabinet and locked the door.

I told the crew no; we are not taking it.

I wasn’t going to play this game.

I have no idea who or what these people were, or what they were up to.

This flat file was not on the list. It would stay in the basement. I was flustered. It was now that I realized I was shaking with adrenaline. It might have been fear; I remember thinking we needed to go.

I did not return to the basement for the rest of the day. Around 3 o’clock, the list of pick-ups was complete to the best of our ability. The truck was nearly full. I was in a daze.

The comfort of mindless labor.

The sun was going down, and dark clouds covered the remaining sky. It is always a foreboding feeling when it is this dark around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. I closed the back door of the truck. I told everyone I would do one more walk-through. I went into the main entrance, past the folly.

I just stood there.

I was alone in this house with the remaining scraps of art. I had a key in my pocket and a warning note. I did not do the walk-through. I stood there for minutes. I waited. I pretended I was doing my job, but I was too frightened to do it. I stood in the foyer and looked out the far window. There was a snow squall outside, dim light flickering, and the window was frosting over near the bottom edge. I wasn’t sure if it was really snowing or if I was imagining it.

Other images flashed.

I was too frightened to turn around and leave. I just stood there in the dark. That was it, though.

Sorry.

Nothing else happened. I eventually left. I got in the truck and drove through the bleak, wintry mess back to the auction house. I parked the truck and went home. I live alone, but I wasn’t afraid. I felt sick, or tired, or both. I was drained and hungry, but I could neither eat nor sleep. My mind wasn’t racing; it was more droning.

I saved all these photos on my phone. I look at them sometimes. I don’t know what became of that flat file, and I work somewhere else now.

About three months ago, I got a text from an unknown number. It was this photo

It is a rusty metal sheet.

Just like in the photo from drawer number 1. It is a zoomed-in version. I didn’t call or text back. I blocked the number.

I am not sure that anything paranormal has taken place.

I am not sure why I still feel sick about it. Why I had to quit that job, or why I am getting strange texts.

It could all be coincidences. It could be my imagination. Maybe this isn’t even a scary story. Maybe I should have lied about the whole thing.

If I told you I saw something, something else. If I saw something walking around that house, would you believe me?

Would it make it more frightening? If there was something in that foyer that gave me pause? If there was a reason I didn’t do the last walk-through. You would call me a liar.

If I told you, a few times I’ve seen something walking around my apartment, or knocking over chairs outside. You would think I was losing my mind.

I still have the key. I want to throw it out. I can’t bring myself to do it.

That’s how I wanted to say all this. Nathan wanted me to share, and this is what I chose to share.

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Almost all photos by James Brundrett

December 2 Posy Churchgate