I pictured this house as one of those lovely old farm houses, with creaking floorboards, the screen door that never seems to latch, and there's always a chill in the air indoors. When you step inside, first glance fails to impress you. There's no flat screen TV in the living room, no stereo anywhere to be found. Even the furniture seems older than your grandma, and you suspect if you sit down, you'll get a whiff of cat urine and Ben Gay.

You wander into the kitchen and see an old gas stove, a fridge that's probably been repaired more times than is safe, but you're surprised to see a microwave oven. Then you realize it has dials on the front, and was probably one of the first ever sold.

On closer inspection, you see the place is very clean. In fact, there's no smell of kitty litter, dog piss, or even vapor rub. Just a faint hint of some kind of black tea, and vanilla pipe tobacco. The chairs and couches are old, but soft and thick and comfortable.

Then you start to look around, and the treasures reveal themselves. Things you'd glossed over on first inspection. What was first a cluttered shelf, is now a treasure-trove of little bits and pieces of Frank's lives, both here and in Ether. Like going through your late grandfather's possessions after his funeral, you find things you haven't seen since you were a child - things you've seen only in photos of grandpa as a child - and things you've never seen before.

Uncle Frank was a collector of mementos. At first glance, he was an old man who never married and lived alone save for the visits from his nieces and nephews. Visits that grew further and further apart as the children aged and had families of their own. But he was so much more than that.

He was an adventurer, a story-teller, a wanderer. He lived a full and happy life, without a single regret. It was a life he'd chosen - to be single - just as others choose the lifestyle of marriage, or the lifestyle of cohabitation.

Frank lived two full lifetimes. One here, where he spent happy, fulfilled summers hosting the children of his brothers, and one in Ether, where he was a welcomed traveler and treasured friend to all who knew him.

But it was here, in Otherworld, where Frank spent the majority of his days.

No one ever knew what Frank did for a living - but he never seemed to want for a thing. His house, paid for many, many years ago, was his sanctuary and security. A little piece of this world he could call Home, no matter where he might be.

Frank believed you never really did own anything in life, other than your own heart and mind, but he thought of that little farm as his just as he knew his left foot belonged right there, at the end of his left leg.

He didn't count the distance in acres. To Frank, his land spanned from that section to the left, then ran along the creek to the North and stopped just short of the apple orchard planted by Mrs. McNagle fifty years ago. They'd gone neglected ever since she'd died, ten years passed, but Frank collected the apples every year and faithfully trucked them down to the Farmer's Market on Saturdays, where he'd end up handing out more than he sold.

Everyone knew Frank's farm. It was one of the largest sections of property that wasn't a working farm or functioning repair shop, or anything else that people used their expansive properties for. Frank's place was pure, untouched since the early pioneers had settled there and farmed.

He mowed the old fields once a year, to pile the hay into the rickety barn where his nephews could land when swinging from the rafters. He kept the old beams braced and maintained the barn for safety's sake, but housed only his old riding lawn mower inside to preserve the beauty of the place.

On warm nights, when the breeze wafted down from the mountains to the North and the sound of crickets filled the air, the smell of horses and sweat would linger there, like ghosts reluctant to leave.

Frank never wanted to lose those old ghosts, or make them feel unwelcome.

Behind the barn is a span of woods, where massive old growth can turn day into night and fill any young child's imagination with monsters, danger and adventures galore. Massive roots pushing through the soft earth provide the perfect homes for wild animals, and the perfect forts for young boys. Centuries of accumulated pine needles and the natural muffling of moss transport the forest visitor to another world, isolated from the madness of modern living.

As a young man, Frank was a Jack-of-all-Trades. While his brothers were going to college, joining the military and starting careers, Frank was living - experiencing the world around him - and soaking it all in. What money he did make, he invested wisely enough to purchase his little farm and settle him in to a life of comfortable satisfaction.

It was during one of his many "antique appreciation" trips when Frank came upon the key to Ether. He was browsing through an old shop, having just sold the proprietor a turn-of the-century armoire, signed by the artist. While he waited for a cashier's check that would pay another full year of his modest existence, he found a key in a drawer filled with rusting locks and keys. Looking for a door handle to replace the old wood one the dog chewed apart, he'd picked up the key, fondling it absently while perusing door knobs.

He hadn't even realized it was still in his hand when he got into the truck to drive home.

It was three days later when he noticed it, in the pocket of his blue shirt, then tried it on the bathroom door.

NEXT CHAPTER