I found the first door under the kitchen sink. 

We’d been having a problem with fruit flies, and I’d read somewhere that vinegar and a little dish soap would cause those fuckers to just up and die. I knew I had a mostly-full bottle of vinegar somewhere in the kitchen, and I’d already exhausted the usual spots before remembering where containers went to die. 

I crouched down, my knees on cold tile. There was a stale breadcrumb pressing into my left knee painfully. I really needed to sweep. I needed to sweep it all. The long curls of hair all over the carpet in the living room had been there for so long that I’d taken to pretending it was part of the pattern. 

I started with the usual suspects, the bleach and the wipes and the mopheads and the paper towels. I took them out and settled them on the floor beside me one by one. No vinegar. I continued to dig, getting into the more unusual haunts, the carpet cleaner, the WD-40, the oven cleaner. Still no. I hunched further in, my head bumping against the pipe. 

There it was, a large plastic jug. I reached for it but it evaded me, slipping sideways. I was going for it again when the angle of my head shifting let in a shaft of light. A perfectly shiny brass knob gleamed in front of me, large and unavoidable. My attention became captured completely. Forgetting the white vinegar, I grasped the knob. It was cool to the touch, all smooth metal and round curve. Barely a twist and it opened easily. 

Gentle light spilled out. The door was large enough for my head and shoulders to fit in easily, so I peered inside. My vision was weirdly foggy, until I got my head through further and realized I was poking my head out of a sink cupboard into a kitchen. Except—no, it was. It was the same sink cupboard. It couldn’t be, but it was. My face was occupying the space where my back half was very much not. I tilted my head awkwardly to peer back behind me. My legs were pressed against the open cupboard door I had originally opened. I faced forward again and began to slither through. What was this place? 

When I’d successfully wriggled through, I straightened my hair and looked around me. The kitchen was the same as the one I’d come from, and somehow entirely different. The quality of the light was different, a soft yellow. The windows didn’t face a gray apartment wall, but looked into the waving arms of a slender birch tree silhouetted against blue sky. The floor tiles were shiny and clean, and not a crumb was to be found. The shitty blender I’d gotten on Facebook Marketplace when I moved into my first apartment years ago was gone, replaced by a spotless teal blue model. It was my kitchen, yes, but the one I dreamt of. 

I ran my hands over everything as I moved around, unsure if this was real. It all felt right—the feel of the dish towels was tufted, the crystals of salt from the salt shaker clung to my sweaty hands. I continued around the house, moving from one room to the next. They were all perfect, each room a paroxysm of joy as I saw what I had always known could be true, if only I had the motivation and money to fulfill my ideas. 

I circled the whole house before finally making it back to the kitchen. It looked just as perfect as it did before. A place for everything and everything in its place. 

Everything exactly in its place, actually. The salt shaker I’d left out on the counter earlier was gone, back in the rack. Odd. Was there someone else here? But no, I’d have heard something. I hadn’t heard anything. Not even the tiniest peep. Even at that moment, the house was oddly still. No humming of the radiator, no fridge whir, nothing. 

A thought crossed my mind, a rather silly one, but to test it out, I took the salt shaker back out and placed it on the counter. Then I walked into the hallway and back. Gone. In the rack. Was the house self-cleaning? 

I pushed it further. I poured a nice pile of salt on the counter. This time, I turned around. When I turned back, it was gone, both the pile and the shaker. I got out the shaker from the rack again, and this time I tipped it all over. Shook it too, so salt went everywhere. White specks on everything, until, before my very eyes, it all disappeared. 

The world seemed to sway before my eyes, and I admit, the next few moments blurred together. My mind spinning, I blinked in and out of in a red haze. Pots, pans, plates… literally everything but the kitchen sink I threw to the ground. Shards exploded before blinking out of existence, the item reappearing untouched on the counter. I grabbed a knife and stabbed the cabinet, but even as I felt it make contact it slipped away and the wood sealed itself up.

This place was cursed. I had to leave. I ran over to the sink and crawled underneath it. But as I stared in, I saw the sliver of light that came from the open door was gone. What happened? I knew I had left it open. I pushed against the door with one hand, then two, then rammed it with my shoulder. It wouldn’—couldn’t—open. I hammered on it for I don’t know how long before giving up, arms going slack as I collapsed still halfway inside the cabinet. 

There was nothing to do. Trapped here, I would starve, cleansed from existence. A sandwich could never be made. Even crackers I ripped open would zip themselves right back into their plastic packaging. And on the other side of the cupboard, I knew, my world was reflecting this perfection in the opposite way. My husband won’t even think to open the cupboard until the fruit flies are so thick in the air each breath sucks in a few more. Maybe I could make it. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe I’d get lucky, and the sink would magically open on its own. Either way, there was nothing I could do. 

I curled up against the rough wood of the cupboard sides and breathed in the smell of lemon scented cleaner. The wait had begun.