Unsolved Mysteries of UniHigh: The Missing Door (Part 2)

BY MADDIE BECK & NAOMI MORCOS

After the unanticipated recognition following the first part of this story, we knew that we could not let our readers down. We have received multiple speculations as to the whereabouts of the ‘missing’ door. Yet, we are pleased to announce that it is no longer missing, for we have uncovered this great mystery once and for all. So without further ado, we now present to you; The Truth about 185.

Many of our readers have sent us possibilities as to where this door may reside in our school. For example, an anonymous source with the signature of ‘M’ has inked their suggestion onto a fluorescent canvas; a green post-it note, stuck to the desk of Ms. Costelloe.

Unfortunately for us, we could not explore the depths of this unknown storeroom, due to the institutional torture commonly known among students as ‘exams’. The bathrooms were off-limits, even to important reporters such as us. So instead, we went to conduct an interview with our next lead.

This next lead, a curious year 7 by the name of Katherine Yang, had come up to us in eager spirits. Henceforth, we decided she was perfect to drag out of maths class and interrogate for our cause. So beneath, we present the situation from the perspective of a year 7. 

N: Where did you think the door was?

K: Idk I never read it

N: What did you think was behind it?

K: Wonderland

N: Is there anything else you’d like to say, door-related or not?

K: A special thanks to Naomi and Maddie :)

If there’s one thing we (and our readers) learned from that exchange, it’s that year 7s aren’t reading the required literature of Uni High (aka our articles). Unfortunately, no leads were gained from this encounter, so we walked away, backs slumped with the heavy weight of defeat. 

But there was one more lead, and that was: our own. For hidden right beneath our noses, revealed by an idle glance towards the back of the canteen, was a door. A door without a number, a blue door, a door so innocuous it became suspicious. For weeks, months, years, this door has evaded our investigations, as we searched high and low throughout the treacherous lands of Uni High. And yet here, right under our noses, a mere 10 metres away from one of our lockers, the door stood. The epitome of our hopes and dreams. Here it was, finally. The two of us screamed in unison before slumping against the door, exhausted from our horrendous trial. We had finally thought we had found the door, but there was more to be done. 

We could not simply assume upon the baseless assumption that this door, aligning with multiple common traits, was in fact, the mysterious 185. So, we used our grand powers of investigative journalism to come to the truth once and for all. First, we examined the fateful plaque that set us on this arduous journey. Upon the back, adhesives sat, a perfect match for the patterns stamped across the top of the lamp door (I wanted to make it rhyme more). The plaque lined up perfectly against the paler rectangle inscribed on the door’s surface, the place where the plaque once sat. As we looked around us, something caught our ever-present eyes. Another door. It was 183, the twin of our door. This was all the evidence we needed. Finally, after years and years of fruitless searching, spending all our (nonexistent) paychecks on this, gaining arthritis in our aged bodies in the frenzied pursuit of the truth, we finally had it. The door. The answer. Our destiny. 

You faithful readers may be wondering, what was behind that fateful door, the meaning of our existence? We were just as curious, and so, we hunted down GP with fervour. We banged at the door of his lair, tears of joy and despair running down our faces. Thankfully, for our desperate souls, GP descended from the sky, and bequeathed upon us the news; he would, in fact, bring us inside 185. “But GP!” We cried, “We must know, can we take pictures inside? The lives of our faithful readers depend on it!” GP agreed, a choir of angels harmonising in the echo of his words as he gracefully blessed us. We sprinted to the door like rabbits on the hunt (do rabbits hunt?) evading water droplets like we were bolts of lightning, faster than even the most astute journalist’s eyes could follow. 

We eventually arrived, panting as we collapsed against the thing ruling our lives. GP pulled out his giant golden key, sparkling in its holy brilliance (and the dim canteen lights), illuminating the grimy floor and half-burnt microwaves that littered the area like skulls of the damned in all its glorious luminance. Without another word, he eased it into the lock. The click of the lock unlocking echoed through the desolate canteen, like water to the starved, like land to the drowned. It may have been the best sound either of us would ever hear. 

And as we crawled inside, hands and knees calloused from the unimaginable pains of our labours, it was like our entire lives had been completed. The two of us could have been struck down right then and there, and died happier than anyone else ever could. However, we had our readers (that’s you!) to think of. We sprung to our feet, reinvigorated, as if the musty air of 185 was our elixir of life. We snapped multiple photos as GP revealed to us the truth of 185, what it really was; an extension of the canteen. It housed a gloomy fridge, some desolate bathrooms, a lone mop that stood in a requiem of what could’ve been. It was better than anything we could’ve imagined. You can even see for yourself, the elusive storage room of 185 (pictured below).

There we were, at the end of our perilous journey. We took a moment to reminisce on the arduous voyage that brought us here, the strings of fate that pulled us towards the conclusion of all we had worked towards like marionettes. We were powerless before the might of 185, this innocuous room that still brought us to our knees before the omnipotent power the room exuded. 

But in the end, it was a bittersweet finale to the stage play of our lives. This was it, as the lights dimmed around us. So now, dear audience, stand up and applaud, for this room, that while it may seem irrelevant to some, just another dilapidated storage cupboard, for us, is the epitome of all perfection. 

Fin.