‘He Who Can Open All Doors’ by Crystal Bourque

Knock Knock! 

Murder and magic — and mamma — reign in Crystal Bourque‘s ‘He Who Can Open All Doors’. 

Awarded honourable mention in the 2019 Surrey International Writers’ Conference Storyteller Award, this story burbles with breath and blood. 

Leave the lights on and the doors locked, and enjoy this excerpt from Pulp Literature Issue 27, Summer 2020.

He Who Can Open All Doors

by Crystal Bourque

Sergeant Paul Frost stumbled out of the house, onto the porch, and into the sunlight. He heard his partner’s boots scuff along the wood behind him. “Well, I ain’t never seen nothing like that.” 

Dale Hunter stood on the porch, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. The grizzled veteran had seen some pretty nasty shit over the course of his thirty-year career. Paul had heard the stories, admired the man, and considered it an honour to learn from the best.   

If what they had seen inside the house had crawled under Hunter’s tough hide, Paul figured it was a blessed, goddamn miracle he still managed to stand on his own two feet. 

The putrid stench of rotting flesh had followed him outside, accompanied by the memory of the decomposing corpse they had found on the floor in the living room. The chest cavity had been ripped open like a birthday present. 

Neither he nor Hunter had found the telltale signs of a break-in or struggle. The only evidence, apart from the body, came from a rust-coloured smear coating the doorknob of a nearby closet.

The crime scene reeked of déjà vu — the horrible, pungent kind that made Paul want to scratch his nose clean off. 

“You alright?” Hunter asked. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he managed to say. “I’ve just never seen anything like … that before.” 

“You and me both,” Hunter said. Paul watched him lift his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Want me to handle the interview with the Crone?” He jammed the hat back onto his head and gestured with his chin to the neighbouring house.  

Paul turned in time to see the curtain twitch closed. “No,” he said before he sighed and scuffed the toe of his boot against dry earth. “I really wish you wouldn’t call her that.”  

“When you explain why she’s our key witness every damn time something fucked up happens in my town, I’ll call her otherwise,” Hunter told him. He pursed his lips and looked as though he wanted to add something, but thought better of it. 

Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the other and squinted at the neighbouring home. 

He supposed the general population might wonder how anyone still lived inside. With its broken shutters, cracked siding, and layers of peeling paint, it looked completely abandoned.

Which is exactly what Aunt Agnes intended, he reasoned. “Let me talk to her first,” he said aloud. He watched the hesitation flicker across Hunter’s face. “Please,” he added. 

Hunter glanced back at the house, where they had left the CSI unit to their work. “Fine, but do it now, before someone notices you’ve gone,” he said, his voice quiet. He left Paul with a shake of his head.

To find out what happens next, pick up your copy of Pulp Literature Issue 27, Summer 2020 here!

Crystal Bourque is a dark fantasy author based out of Toronto, Canada. She is obsessed with all things fantastical, so much so that she has a recurring dream about being a princess with a sword. When she’s not busy writing, she loves trying new recipes, plotting her next travel destination, and singing loudly. To learn more, visit her website.