In 1852 an apprentice by the name of Daniel Thatcher stood one day shielding his eyes from the sunlight watching his father gather straw and reed to weave a section of roof, when Daniel noticed out of the corner of his eye something rather peculiar appearing upon the side of the wall low to the floor. It was a door no bigger than the size of his shoe appearing and disappearing before him like a ghost, old and gnarly with ornate hinges and a beautiful door knob. He rubbed his eyes and stared closer, but soon the door seemed to appear for good; solid as a piece of timber. He was mesmerised by its grandeur and captivated by its magic, but it seemed out of place and truly remarkable.
Daniel stood aghast and called for his father high up on the roof to come quick to see what he was witnessing, and soon enough his father stood with his son and agreed that this was a rather peculiar site to behold, and not something they should dwell upon or give much mind to as the sun was setting and darkness would soon be upon them, as stories were told of such things.
Daniel's father cautiously relayed the story of the strange goings on within the house that were relayed to him many years previous-of the dark magic and incantations conducted by the decrepit old man who once lived there. Spirits were summoned, demons were contacted and fairies were brought forth to perform tasks for the old man, some for good, others for ill. Children in the village went missing, taken by goblins, teeth were harvested, the healthy grew mysteriously sick as the tiny folk began to appear frequently to the unsuspecting villagers, while others grew rich and prosperous. Then as soon as it all started, within a year it had stopped, they were never to be seen again-the small folk and the witches, and nor were the children, and the house grew empty and the village grew cold and so a folklore had begun.
The villagers blessed their houses with children's shoes on the landing to ward off these creatures, and superstitions built rapidly of newcomers to the village, for nobody could be trusted.
Folklore has it that Daniel returned to the house as an adult and purchased it for £200 in 1887, for he wanted to know the secrets behind the tiny door and what lie within the strange dwelling he had helped to thatch, but his purchase revealed not one, but a multitude of tiny doors dotted inside the house, appearing and disappearing at will like dark shadows. Books were found abandoned, hidden within the walls, the spells once worked to bring about change for good and bad, for love and money and danger and peril were finally once again read out-loud.
A century and a half later Leigh Thatcher, the great, great, great, great grandson of Daniel Thatcher came into possession of the original moulds made from the original doors, handed down through the family-for nobody wanted to take any responsibility for them and the sometimes dark consequences that were deemed to follow. Leigh began creating the doors once more after 150 years and realised whatever spells were embroiled with them had all but vanished. One or two doors had to be destroyed, something he will not talk about for it was a harrowing time for those involved, but for the most, the doors he recreated brought about good will, but only for those who believed. So the story goes.