Faerie Tales by Alex Jane Scala

The Girl Who Used to Dream by Meisje R.

...And the Door Will Open by Thia Odiorne

Evolution by Kenna Kettrick

Review: Pan's Labyrinth by Frances Nicole Rogers

Horizon by Taline Boghosian

She consoles herself with the art, which never turns away. Tonight she's up in the medieval galleries. She moves through the paintings quickly: bland Madonnas with unnaturally adult-looking infant Christs on their laps, all gilt paint and unrealistic proportions and eyes fixed vaguely on the middle distance as if you bored them. She turns the corner and lingers for a second by the uncomfortable-looking saddle, made for some Renaissance duke, all covered with more gold and delicate paintwork of flowers and saints, then pauses again by the grand gilded alterpiece with a dozen different saints, staring out at you with varying degrees of complaisance and confusion, as if not quite sure what they're doing there.

But her favorite piece is in the third room. According to the label, it was once the doorway to a Spanish church. There's no hint of gold to it, only solid dark wood and iron. The doors themselves stand locked and barred in the center, while around them, radiating outwards, are layers of carving, demons and angels and vines and more saints. The museum set a bench there in front of it, and Ruth has spent several pleasant hours sitting there, studying the writhing figures and wondering who carved them, who passed through those doors and whether they ever looked up and really noticed the work around them. She tries to imagine what the church itself looked like, who went there, but her imagination always falls short.

She's looking at something else -- a massive stone crucifix, with a rather abstract-looking Christ -- when she hears a soft knocking. She looks around, frowning, but there's nobody else in the room at the moment, not even a security guard. She decides she imagined it, and turns back to the crucifix.

The knocking this time is louder, more determined. It's coming from the church door. Ruth looks around for a prankster again, but she is still alone, and in any case the church door is flush up against the thick stone wall of the museum, impossible for the most determined prankster to get to the other side and knock. She takes a deep breath. The nearest security guard that she can remember is over by the Victorian galleries. She will go there and tell them what she's hearing. Now. Even if it means she must pass the church doors -- her familiar, friendly church doors, that in the quiet after the knocking somehow do not feel so familiar or friendly -- to leave the room.

She trots out. Just as she enters the next room, the knocking comes a third time, booming through the entire gallery. Like an attack, Ruth thinks to herself with a shiver, and then, or perhaps an armored knight seeking entrance. Or even an angel. Who else would be knocking at a church door like that?

She finds the security guard and tells her that she heard odd noises in the medieval gallery. The guard nods politely and promises to check it out. As Ruth leaves the room, she can see the guard muttering into her radio. She doesn't stay to hear what's being said. She doesn't want to find out that she's been dismissed again.

She doesn't go to the museum, next Tuesday. Instead she walks past as quickly as she can, and goes home and makes herself spaghetti. There's nothing interesting on TV. She goes to bed early, and lies awake trying to imagine who might knock at a medieval church door.

The next Tuesday, she goes to the museum, but stays away from the medieval galleries. She asks one of the security guards, as casually as she can, about what she heard. He gives her a blank look and says he hasn't heard anything: two weeks ago, was this? No, nothing. Must've been a prankster.

But it wasn't, Ruth thinks stubbornly. It was something else. And the next Tuesday, she goes directly up to the medieval galleries, not even pausing by the bland Madonnas and the golden saddle and the gilded alterpiece. She stands in front of the door and glares at it.

She doesn't know how long she waits there: she didn't put on a watch this morning. But suddenly in the silence, there comes the knock on the door.

It's not as startling this time, not as threatening. Ruth unwillingly thinks about all her theories about who would be knocking: a knight seeking sanctuary, an angel offering solace. The door with its intricate carvings looks familiar again. What was that quote she used to hear in church? "Knock, and the door will be opened to you; seek, and ye shall find."

Has anyone else heard the knocking?

It comes again -- not louder, this time, but perhaps that's just her perception. She hesitates for a long moment, then trots off instead of waiting for the third knock. She has a question to ask the security guard.

It's the same one as last time. No, she says wearily, there wasn't anything. She went and looked herself. It must have just been a prankster, or wood settling, something like that.

Or your imagination, Ruth supplies for herself, but this time it doesn't hurt. She goes home thoughtfully.

She has a hard time concentrating at work for the next week. She might be wrong, but she can't think of any other answer. "Seek, and ye shall find." She hadn't even realized she was seeking.

The next Tuesday, she goes up to the medieval galleries and sits down on the bench to wait. As usual, she's the only one there. Her stomach is full of butterflies. The ledge in front of the door is probably alarmed -- but that doesn't matter, it won't take her long. The door might be locked, and she doesn't have the key. Worst of all, she still doesn't know who or what is knocking in the first place. Her imagination still falls short.

When the first knock comes, she stands up, climbs over the velvet rope, and walks up to the door. Up this close, the layers of angels and demons and vines and saints all seem to blend into shadows. She tugs off the padlock -- not closed, just there to keep it from swinging free -- and tosses it to one side, then leans down to lift the wooden bar across the door.

The knocking comes again. Ruth laughs breathlessly to herself, because she's answering as quickly as she can, and finally the bar comes up off its perch, sliding askew so it blocks one door only -- she's not strong enough to remove it entirely. She takes the heavy iron handle of the freed door in both hands.

The knocking comes a third time. There are footsteps in the room beyond: the security guard, who couldn't hear the knock, could apparently see the ledge alarm go off. With a smile, Ruth opens the door.