Gretel was fearless upon opening the cathedral door.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” the dank belly of the church replied.

The scorching sun, biting through the fractured stained glass, had turned the building into an oven. She never minded the heat; her twig-like frame easily withstood the most sweltering summer days.

Was this the right place? The key read: 7 Gottingen Rd. This was it. Her heart beat quickly behind the over-sized flannel shirt. Her ambition had robbed her of sleep since finding the silver key. Now she would find out, to what it leads.

“Hello,” she reiterated, this time expecting no reply. The poorly kept church was vacant. She could taste the faint aroma of dusty hymnals and decayed wooden pews on her tongue. Benches once adorned with the clergy and choir now sat quiet, long ago yielding to the progression of time. A sublimely aged chandelier, no longer magical with light, hung from the heavens. The only other trappings were the newly woven cobwebs, which braided the ceiling to the floor.

What fun is must have been, she thought, to dress up and come to this beautiful place of worship.

Continuing deeper into the sanctuary, Gretel’s wooden heels clicked melodiously on the hard floor as she frolicked through the aisles. The played the tune of an eager eleven-year-old on one of her many adventures.

Gretel was always known for her absence of fear. Her parents cautioned her, but to no avail. They often feared, as parents do, that her wandering might lead to calamity. But she remained undaunted. She never once cried for an under-the-bed inspection, or shied away from an un-inspected closet. Angst and terror were no match for her insuppressible curiosity.

She soon reached the extent of the room and found only one door, hidden in the corner of the cathedral. She stepped lightly towards the far edge of the church, which was blackened by shadow. Fumbling around in her pocket she produced the delicate key, tarnished and scarred.

Gretel eagerly moved the formed metal piece close to the lock of the old wooden door. It fit perfectly. But just before she could turn it, a sound from behind startled her.

She reversed quickly, hoping to discover the source of the clamor, but saw nothing.

Anxiously she continued her search, rotating the key. A gratifying “click” was proof that it had worked. The door was unlocked and she reached for the handle. The metal was rust-eaten and cold. While she examined it with her soft hands, a second sound provoked her attention, followed by a resounding rattle. The chandelier began to convulse, shaking free years of dust and cobwebs. At the same time the formerly rotten pews became exuberant with life again. The once grimy walls were decorated in silver and gold and the broken shards, which had been scattered like bread crumbs across the tile, retraced their descent from the window frames and formed magnificent stained glass.

Gretel froze, as the church was reborn around her. All at once a gaggle of patrons burst through the front doors. They promptly took their seats on the velvet pews and she recognized many of them as her friends and family. They were all dressed quite elegantly. She wondered what the occasion might be.

All this commotion was more than she could fathom; her legs became weak. Quickly growing wary of what might enter the door next her sea-blue eyes became fixed on the gaping entrance. A darkly dressed man entered. Following him was a large box carried by six others, all ornate in black. Gretel couldn’t hold back a gasp and she quickly looked away, turning to the mysterious door. “I’ll hide,” she decided, now afraid of who, or what, was in the coffin. She didn’t want to interrupt the proceedings.

She opened the door and slipped inside through only a small crack. It was black as death inside the room and a strong odor enveloped her. She heard the low buzzing of flies’ wings. Searching the room blindly she discovered that it was no larger than a closet. The clammy moist walls against her innocent fingertips sent a chill through her body. There were vertical grooves dug into the wooden door. She traced their paths with her hand. The overpowering stench lingered under her nose. She sneezed and tasted bile in her throat.

Her hands shook violently across the inside of the room. When she finally found a switch she flicked it up.

There was a dark heap piled at her feet. Was this the stench? Uneager to provoke the unknown shape, she delicately tapped it with her foot. Immediately a thousand flies, abandoning their host, swarmed around her frantically. Gretel hunched to the floor to escape the pests, only exposing herself to a more horrifying revelation.

It was a corpse. Although its clothes were relatively intact, it had been deprived of most of its flesh. Whatever meat was left now festered at the bottom of the closet.

She jumped up to escape and found that the door was closed. She pulled at the handle furiously. It was locked. Scratching and pounding the thick door absorbed anything that she could deal. None of the others heard. She forgot her fear of upsetting the procession and replaced it with her urgency to escape. Her painted nails broke into tiny splinters of crimson. The ends of her fingers oozed.

The fever of the closet caused her to tire quickly. She would die of exhaustion if she couldn’t escape.

A man was speaking just outside of the closet. Why couldn’t they hear her?

“Thank you all for coming,” she could barely hear over her own stifled gasps for air.

“We are gathered here today to mourn the death of Gretel Eingeist…”

She dug desperately at the door once last time. No one heard.

She collapsed to the floor, sobbing and exhausted.

Forgetting the harsh smell of the cadaver, she lay softly on it. Her fate was imminent; she would be cooked in this oven.

As her heart began to fail, she leaned heavily on the carcass, tilting it to one side.

A small silver key fell to the floor from its over-sized flannel shirt pocket. It clanked against the tile.

The delicate key was tarnished and scarred.

The room rumbled and the light went out.