He stopped and stared for a moment, just catching a glimpse of the old frame that lay hidden just inside the door's shadow that lay across the wall to his left. He had never seen this before, so many times walking by this area and yet never taking the time to glance towards this small area. Perhaps the door was always closed. He could not recall, but today by some chance the door was slightly ajar, just open enough so he could see in.

The hall that it led into twisted off into a set of stairs that led down into unknown mysteries. Probably just another level of the labyrinthian floors that filled this place. But what held his attention was that partial glimpse of the old oak frame. He had to look, had to see what it was. The place was fairly devoid of any interesting paintings or portraits of any kink. He found this funny. Usually a man like Jenkins would have pictures of the entire family lineage pasted across every room and empty bare wall to show off the grand adventures and lives that the past had made to finally lead up to his birth, but the old man had not a one. Not a picture of himself, not a picture of his long since deceased children or family. Nothing. Just the blank walls showing nothing but blank stares. Sure there was the usual sculpture and piece of miscellaneous artwork or nick-nak that went along with any house that could be more defined as a palace, but these are things that were designed to merely fit perfectly with the interior, like accessorizing just for the fact of accessorizing. The old man did not care what was there, it was only there. The space was filled, but not with memories, with empty attractions that others could feast there eyes upon to take them away from the fact that there was not blank walls. It was eye candy designed by professionals, not the old man.

Slowly, he walked up to the door, the door he had somehow never noticed, and stepped inside. The hall did not give out any light from the lamp fixtures that were placed sparingly down it's walls. They were dusty and old as if nary a soul had been down these corridors in ages. The quiet light that filtered from the bright walkways outside filtered in to give it almost a eerie glow, a moonlit night would look such as this.

He looked at the frame, it's right edge showing just enough of itself to call his attention, to woo his inquisitive mind. The rest was hidden behind the door. Whatever mystery lay behind blocked by the swinging pieces of wood ornately carved with leaves and adorned with a heavy metal latch that usually held it shut.

To see it, he had to swing the door shut, but this blocked all light. He now stared at the darkness, the frame gone, the hall gone, everything gone except the sliver of light that trickled down the stone wall behind him. He could have just left it alone, Why take the time and effort to see this painting or picture? He had things to do, many, many things that had to be done before the old man would go into a rage.

The rages could be very unpredictable, even if one thing was not right, ever so slightly askewed from how he preferred it, he would go into an uproar of amazing proportions. For a man as ancient and weak as he was, he would somehow call up the energy to rant and rave better than any lunatic ever condemned to the darkest asylums of Europe.

This made life always interesting for this onlooker, this follower. He did not question, did this man. He merely went along with what he was told. Went blindly along because he thought that this was the way it was always to be. the old man in charge, him his ever-faithful servant that should bow before every beck and call. This is the way it had always been since he had taken the job many years ago. So long that he had forgotten what he had done before, what he had been like before. Perhaps he had wished to forget, to never remember what his life was like before being somehow fated upon this place and the old man that wasted slowly away inside it.

The money was god, though he did nothing with it. He rarely left the house to go out to the world that lay outside. This was his world. The food was brought by paid peasants, from there he would take it and make meals fit for probably only the old man. There was one time, years back, that he had braved the outside and went down to the small town just outside of the mansion's perimeter that was held in with high stone walls. This did not go well. He managed to venture into a local pub, the people swarmed around him like a mass of bugs. Seeming to crawl and writhe around him, yet at the same time never really taking notice of the stranger that sat himself at a booth off to the side and out of the way of the yapping regulars. He stayed awhile, ordered some food and just watched. The people went about their business and he with his. Food done, he was gone. There was nothing to keep him here, he would just go back up to the old mansion again and never let himself worry about the others that lived their lives day by day outside of it's walls.

He needed to see what the frame had to offer. Was it just another useless piece of garbage deemed to be art or was there something actually to it. Did it somehow hold a bit of a clue to the old man's past. He did not know a single thing about the man. There was no going back and reminiscing for Jenkins, he barely even talked to him except for the sharp orders barked throughout the day. All these years and nary a word of being somewhat human. Just laying in bed, sometimes staring at the ceiling, sometimes staring at the walls. The old man's day would only be filled with meal times and journeys to the cramped bathroom whose door lay within feet of his bed.

He had to see. More than ever, he had to see. He opened the door again, light once again casting its strange blue aura into the hallway and walked out towards a small table that lay within an alcove across the way. From a drawer set into, he pulled out a red candle and holder that looked as if it had been made even before the house was built. With a quick scrape of a match the wooden stick burst into a tiny flame just enough to light the candle before it snuffed itself out. The wax crackled as the heat began to melt through it's ancient skin. It popped and hissed like raindrops hitting pavement upon the beginning of storm, then it lay silent as the wax remembered how it was supposed to act and what it was made to do.

The flame flickered back and forth as he walked back into the awaiting hall. The shadows of the useless light fixtures leapt crazily first left then right, up and down twisting in some kind of whirl pool. He went up to the door, the frame now wiped away of the shadow that had hidden it. It was indeed a very ancient wood that had once been layered around the edge with was once a beautiful gold, but now flaked like dead skin waiting for a slight breeze to stir it off and let it finally fly free of it's holder. The wood was cracked, ready to fall apart, weather almost like it had been through hell in the outdoors. Looking closely he could see that there were actually small carvings running up and down it's length. Small characters Doing one thing or another, but long since widdled by time so as to be barely decipherable.

All this from merely the small section of frame. He could have just left now, Not even looking back, but he couldn't. It seemed like such a strange thing that he never really noticed this door, Never glanced down into this hall after all of these years. He had to know.

He placed his free hand against the edge of the door. It felt cold to the touch. He began to swing it towards him away from the wall, away from what it hid. Steeping out of it's way as it shut itself tightly into place he took the glance that he had been waiting for.

It was a painting, a painting that looked like it could have been created by a brush of one of the first artists to have laid their ideas upon canvas. The dull colors were cracked and riddled with age, but the features that it combined together were not lost at all. In fact, they came together to make a very distinctive portrait of a man. He looked familiar, so familiar. And as he squinted to see who this man was, he stopped. Eyes wide. Candle light dancing to an unheard song. His mouth slowly dropped down as if to say something or to scream a scream that would not let itself come out. The face stared at him with as much intensity as he did to it and it's eyes seemed almost alive, watching to see what would occur once it had finally been found.

It was a painting of himself, but more. For it was a painting of the old man but much younger. It was both in the same. The eyes seemed tell the secret so long held, so long never understood. The secret held behind a wooden door that no one ever seems to notice that leads into a hallway that seems to lead to nowhere. With a crisp crackle, the light of the candle was snuffed out as the dark took over once again. The lock of the door snapped shut. the old man rolled over one last time in bed and past away, the vision of a portrait painted so long ago filling his mind before all went and the dark took over once again.