He wouldn’t give up. He worked too hard to get this far, but the choice he had to make was driving him insane. Behind this door could be untold riches, monsters, or any other thing imaginable, depending on what key it was opened with. The door stood there, wooden and still practically mocking him. This made him infuriated but he wouldn’t quit, there were things behind that door that he needed. He held five keys in his hand. One had to be lucky.

 

He needed the money. Landon’s operation was crucial — without the operation he would die of kidney failure. He thought of his brother and nearly cried, but he had to get a grip. One of these keys could be a winner.

 

The five keys he held were all different. One was shaped like a skull, one was hundreds of years old and rusty, one looked like a house key (in fact it was his house key), one was silver with a few scratches, and the final one was solid black and shaped like a person. He didn’t know which one to choose.

 

He lifted his house key, his hand digging into the ridges so far that it cut a little bit of his skin. His heart beating so loud it sounded like drums in his head. His hand was trembling, he even dropped the key a few times before he managed to get it into the hole. Any key would open the door — he knew that — but what was behind the door was different depending on the key. That was fine. The hard part was that a person could only open the door once. If they tried a second time, it was rumored they would die. His brother’s life came down to this moment. 

 

Quivering, he opened up the door, and behind it was an empty room with nothing but newspaper headlines pinned to the walls.

 

No! He had picked the wrong key! 

 

The defeat was so overwhelming he cried for a while, the chilled tears on his face reminding him of ice water. He kept crying. And crying and crying, until he heard the sound of the door shutting. He stood up and walked over. There was no keyhole from this side. He yanked on the rustic antique handle, nothing. He tried again, frantic this time, hoping, needing to get out of there. An old-fashioned black and white newspaper caught the corner of his eye.

 

There might be a clue on how to get out of here on the headline, he thought. He walked over to the paper. The main headline said, “Famed explorer missing, presumed dead.” He noticed how the word "presumed" was expressly inky to the point that the "o" was smudged into looking like a "u." The section talked about how he was searching for a door that would open with any key but what was behind the door changed depending on what key was used. He looked at the paper again, noticing the date: February 2, 1985. No, that isn’t possible, he thought. The date is January 3rd, 1985. He peered closer at the paper, the name of the explorer was Nestor Gutten — but that wasn’t possible — he was Nestor Gutten.

 

He could feel the sweat on his forehead trickling down his round face. He rushed over to look at another newspaper, practically yanking it off the wall. He didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the tears streaming down his face. The headline read: “Remembering and honoring a loved explorer lost a decade ago.” The date was February 2, 1995. 
 

Many other explorers have tried to find the door since, but all have failed. Nestor Gutten has now been missing for 50 years, and he is still loved and remembered. The door featured in many African legends has been known as şeytan qapısı, or the devil door. Unbeknownst to Nestor Gutten, in every legend of the door, the person dies and is never found again.

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